Seasons of
a Life
One story a season. That’s plenty.
The Garden You Forgot to Plant
A story for spring.
For the ones who meant to, but didn’t.
You had the gloves.
The seed packets—forgotten in a drawer beneath other plans.
Maybe herbs. Maybe tomatoes.
You even blocked off a Sunday afternoon.
But time moved like wet cement—
spilled across chores, catching up,
and the kind of tired that doesn’t explain itself.
The pots stayed empty.
Now the hose is curled like a question mark.
The planter cracked.
A spider’s taken up residence
where your sweet peas were supposed to go.
Still—
something grew.
A little wild thing,
green and stubborn,
breaking through the crack by the hose.
No permission.
No planning.
Just…life.
The Afternoon That Felt Like Summer
A story for summer.
When nothing changes—but you do.
You were supposed to be doing something else.
But you didn’t.
Just a fan in the window
and a book you’d already started once before.
You peeled an orange,
let the juice run down your wrist—
didn’t even grab a napkin.
You laughed—like it surprised you—
at a line no one else would’ve noticed.
You disappeared for a while.
And when you came back,
nothing had changed—
except you.
The Drawer Where You Keep the Notes
A story for fall.
On what you are not ready to throw away.
You open the drawer
looking for something else.
Tape, maybe.
A stamp.
Instead,
there it is.
An envelope
with your name
in handwriting
you would know anywhere.
You don’t open it.
You have read it before.
You know how the paper folds.
Where the ink grows faint.
The sentence that made you keep it.
Still,
you hold it for a moment.
Then place it back
beneath the cards,
the old photograph,
the things you once meant
to sort through.
You close the drawer.
Not because you are finished.
Because, for now,
knowing it is there
is enough.
The Box
You Didn’t Open
A story for winter.
On what waits without asking to be opened.
It sat there
longer than the others.
Same paper.
Same ribbon.
Nothing about it stood out.
You opened everything else first.
The expected things.
The ones you could name
before you even touched them.
This one—
you moved it once or twice.
Made space.
Cleared the table.
Left it where it was.
Not urgency.
Not avoidance.
Just…not yet.
The room quieted.
People drifted off.
At some point,
it was just you
and the last thing unopened.
You picked it up.
Felt the weight.
Not heavy.
Just enough to notice.
You turned it in your hands
like it might tell you something.
It didn’t.
Not yet.