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Spring, Come Rain or Shine

  • Yungseo Lee
  • Apr 30, 2015
  • 2 min read

Snowdrop_with_six_petals.jpg

An old woman in the land of spring looked up at the sky and murmured something to her daughter.

“Don’t be silly, mother,” said the young woman. She was twenty, maybe twenty-two, her cheeks rosy red and her hair twisted with cherry blossoms.

“The sky’s always been that way. Here! Won’t you have some breakfast? Soup’s getting cold.”

Her mother shook her head.

“Celia,” she whispered in a slow, sick voice, “It’s never been this way.”

But Celia was off again, chattering as she busied herself with the dishes. “Spring festival’s today. It’ll be such a shame if you were to miss it - how’s your cough, mother?”

Before the old woman could answer, the kitchen door opened. A young man entered the room with a bright bunch of flowers in hand.

“Snowdrops!” Celia cried in delight. “Freddy!”

They kissed. The old woman slowly rose from her seat, her breakfast forgotten.

“Celia, dear - ”

“Mother thinks something’s wrong,” explained Celia, taking the bunch of spring flowers and organizing them in a small vase. “Freddy, tell her.”

Freddy made his way over to the old woman, wrapping his arms around her frail shoulders.

“Mother, nothing’s the matter,” he assured her, grinning pleasantly. “The weather’s beautiful today. Why don’t we have a picnic in the afternoon? And then we could go to the spring festival - ”

“The weather’s always beautiful.”

Freddy blinked. His green eyes were round, wide, full of innocent confusion.

“Well, yes. It is, mother. Always.”

The old woman shook her head, her fingers skittering over the breakfast table, tapping the silverware and tipping over the salt-and-pepper shakers. “You don’t understand. The weather’s always beautiful. Celia, Celia!”

Celia sighed. She wiped her hands and came to kneel b her mother, taking both her wrinkled, grayed hands in her own slender ones.

“Yes, mother?”

“The skies, Celia. Celia, Celia… They’ve changed!”

The old woman uttered the last word in a terrified squeak, her voice growing more distressed with every syllable spat out in horror. She shook, white wisps of hair bouncing around her taut cheeks.

Celia glanced at Freddy.

“Mother?”

“The weather’s beautiful! Spring, Celia, it’s spring. Spring! The festival - how many times have you gone now, really now?”

Freddy came to the rescue, speaking for his fiancée. “Mother’s it’s today. The festival, I mean.”

“Yesterday!”

“Today, mother,” insisted the young man. “Today.”

The old woman broke free of their grasps and staggered away towards one of the open windows. Her chair slowly rocked backwards and clattered against the clean wooden boards.

“Yesterday. Tomorrow. Celia, don’t you see? Yesterday, tomorrow, spring - it’s always spring. Today!”

Celia reached for her hands but the old woman backed away. She looked from side to side, as if looking for something, as if waiting for something to pop out from behind the chairs.

“It’s behind schedule. It’s overdue. We’ve kept it away for too long. Oh, God, Celia, I can’t. It’s coming, it’s coming soon - ”

“Mother,” asked Freddy, “What is?”

“Don’t be silly, mother,” said the young woman. “The sky’s always been that way. Won’t you have some breakfast? The eggs are wonderfully fluffy!”

Freddy entered the house, a bouquet of dahlias in one hand.

 
 
 

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