A love letter (?)
a (fictional) letter in loving memory of Crosmelia, the most beautiful flower that ever was, (may she rest in peace) - pictures of her at the end of the letter.
Dear Crosmelia,
People talk about the long days of Winter and the devouring cold, and yet it’s only in June that I see the season consuming our world, trying to bring the promised flames to end us and all of us at last.
People talk about the sadness that settles over every heart and the heaviness that seems to never leave people’s minds in the long nights and short days of Winter.
But I have never been sadder than I am now, and June has barely begun.
Please tell me why Crosmelia, for I feel I’m losing my mind again.
I know you hate my dramatism, but the evil Summer begs for sickly-sweet words, and although Spring still reigns, Summer has already stretched it’s devilish claws trying to rule the land again.
I’ll describe to you my precise thoughts in the eternal hope to be understood, for I know you to be my last hope.
I have always spent hours pondering about the seasons, wondering which one I liked the best. Such a frivolous thing to spend one’s time with, and yet we have all done that at least once, haven’t we? Well, it was in that wonderment that I found that I longed for Winter, more than I could ever long for Summer. For even if my body missed its warmth during Winter, it is nothing compared to how much my soul misses the freezing wind of January.
In Summer I feel my lungs drying, the sweet pleasure of breathing burned away by the hot air. The wind loses its meaning, the sun stops being a blessing and shadows become my relief.
Insects try to devour all and everything.
Everything that flourished in spring is now rotting, rotting, rotting... the smell of nature becomes of sickening fruit. My soul cannot bear the unjust words of people then, expressing their adoration for the hot weather when the land, the soil, the world suffers so.
Oh, how rain becomes my happiness then. Promising that I am still here, I am still alive and I won’t be devoured by the earth, the sun and the bugs, even if you were. Even if all is. Promising that tomorrow will still come and one day those little drops of water will frost into little flocks of ice again, turning the world in the beautiful silky white my heart cries for.
Please Crosmelia, do not think I can’t see the beauty of Summer, but the admiration fades fast, for the green leaves and the crimson flowers are the art of Spring and not its follower. A Spring sky is still more than the relentlessly blue Summer sky will ever dream of being.
Why has no one talked about how it feels to wake up in a June morning bathed in sunlight? I’m sure the words sound beautiful to your ears Crosmelia, for you were nothing if not sunlight, and I’m sure that if it was Winter, my windows letting the cold inside while the beautiful rays of sun entered my room, the sight might have been enchanting indeed, but I assure you with my heart that it feels like your whole being is trying to crawl its way out of your body, your skin in flames and your blood in hot, sticky bubbles.
Is it possible I’m the only one that feels so? I shall think it is, as no one sleeps with their windows open anymore.
Perhaps you would feel like that too if you could only wake up again. I know you would. But now you lie forever in this wet, dark soil, and I can only hope the heat can’t get to you in there.
Please forgive me for killing you Crosmelia, for even if it weren’t my hands, it was my failure in protecting you that led you to this terrible, yet inevitable end. I will forever fear the vision of the bugs that I saw way too late, your bones and skin had already crumbled, given away to June.
I miss you everytime I look at your empty room, that calls to you everyday, begging you to come back. I see you in every corner, in every flower and every ray of sunshine that breaks its way into our house, laughing for its horrible toils.
I shall remember you and miss you until June takes me away too, as it eventually takes all.
With love,
Antônia.
