I couldn’t fathom that the seasons were still changing — and that summer was on its way. My mother’s death seemed more like a herald of an ice-cold, silent autumn. A season that would arrive without any invitation, dropping it’s leaves and leaving a slippery trail, even though it hadn’t rained in days.
Instead, the sun came out. It was the end of March and while I was waiting for drizzly days, foggy windows, and spiderwebs covered in dew, the days were only getting warmer. I was wondering if mother earth had made a mistake, unaware that my mother was not alive anymore. She seemed to have forgotten to adjust the weather conditions to the colors of my mind.
I didn’t understand how summer could arrive, while inside of me there was a storm raging, pouring down my cheeks. Yet, it was impossible to understand that something had changed. At home, everything remained the same after my mother left. The plants were still breathing, the garden didn’t seem to notice my mother had left. More weeds appeared in between the tiles and the grass grew longer than ever before. For our garden, it was rather a period of prosperity.
How could my mother have disappeared? Her presence was still lingering everywhere. Her clothes were still hanging in the closet, her toothbrush was exactly where she left it. She never intended to leave. At any time, she could come down the stairs, walk to the kitchen, open the fridge. Any moment now, she could say something. Any moment now.
It was impossible to fit all of those few days into the months that had passed. The shape of the days was lost to me, I couldn’t remember whether months had passed, or only weeks.
And yet, summer came.
I don’t remember how I got through the days, but I did. Every time the sun rose, a new time arrived. The days that passed didn’t end as restless as the one before. My heart rate slowly went from sky-rocketing to a calm beat before going to bed. The length of the days stopped being unpredictably long or short. There was something steady to look forward to, even though I had no one to share it with.