Sometimes in April
She's a quiet girl, mostly. A cup of warm, strong tea nestled against the soft curve of her stomach and a faded moss-green quilt wrapped securely around her legs are all the company that she needs most nights. In June, July, August, she likes to drink her tea outside, curling up under the cherry tree with a different quilt, this one especially for the outdoor months of summer. It's peaceful, calm, silent—and that's all she needs, and all she'll ever need, because somehow, she's stronger on her own.
Through the months of September and October, when the golden warmth of summer bleeds into autumn's vibrant chill, she sips her tea and watches the sun set beyond the westernmost window in her tiny flat. She wishes, sometimes, she had a house of her own, where she could have a little porch with a swing just large enough for two people. Then she would drink her tea outside, even when the ground gets cold and hard. But she's too practical to dream much, so she contents herself with what she has and does not wish for more.
When the cold evenings of November bring snowflakes past her window, she pulls over her favourite armchair, blue with fading golden petals, and settles inside the familiar musky arms. A sigh might escape her lips, but if it does, it passes unnoticed in the timeless delight of watching the silent dance of falling snow. There may be sorrow, there may be pain, but in the graceful descent of each snowflake, there is peace.
She's a strong girl, really. Night after night she comes home to her quiet flat, lays her shoes on the large yellowed radiator, hangs her coat in the empty closet, walks past the lone bed that is somehow too large and too neat and too normal. Sometimes she smiles when she enters; sometimes she gives a soft sigh—but mostly, she walks silently over to the kitchen, brews her single cup of tea, and curls up under her faded moss-green quilt. She understands that true strength lies in continuing on, living, surviving one day after the next. And so she spends December, January, February.
When the silent snowfall gives way to the gentle pitter-patter of rain, she finds refuge under the warm browns of her duvet. There is something about March that makes it colder than all the other months, and she huddles closer to the meagre warmth of the steam as it gently curls, rising from her favourite mug. Her eyes are not so alive as usual, and her tea does not last quite as long as it has in months past, but still she finds comfort in the steady warmth, nestled softly against the curve of her stomach. The days are harsher, colder, louder—but she is forgiving and understands and accepts.
The days lengthen, and the snowfalls diminish, and soon the end of March comes as the quiet tones of spring fill the air. But sometimes in April she does not have her tea. Sometimes in April she does not curl up in the blue-gold armchair. Sometimes in April the moss-green quilt lies neatly folded in the corner for days on end, because it is too silent, and too peaceful, and the world has become too large again, and she can't stand the pain of being alone another second.
Sometimes in April, she kneels in the dirt, cold and harsh and clinging to the white of her stockings, or the blue of her trousers. Sometimes in April she cries. Sometimes in April the world turns grey. And sometimes in April she lays a red, red rose on a grass covered mound, and remembers a time when she didn't have to be strong, didn't have to understand, didn't have to be so alone.
And she's stronger on her own.