Brief Commentary:
Despite the title, I would recommend listening to Clint Mansell's "Summer Overture" while reading this.
Winter Overture
A Brief Retelling
April:
She knows something is wrong with herself. A feeling of exhaustion will not leave her body, no matter how much she rests. She forgets the little things, like buying the right groceries, and when it's time for their annual hair cuts. On occasion spots will dance in her vision, and she has to sit down.
May:
Eventually, she makes up her mind not to tell them. She does not want them to worry; they are too precious, too delicate for that sort of news. She goes on as usual.
June:
She won't stop coughing. Don't worry about me, it's just a small cold, she tries to assure them. They don't believe her, but they smile and nod like good little boys and go about their ways, one eye always trained on her every movement.
July:
They celebrate her birthday. They attempt at making her a cake, but it just burns in the oven, much to their disappointment. She smiles and says it's fine, she'll make a special one just for the three of them. The cold hasn't gone away, as she hovers over the cake batter, coughing and hacking into her hand.
August:
She watches them play outside as she leans against the side of their home. Her body appears weak, her skin a sickly, pale color despite her summer tan. After another coughing fit, she absently wipes the blood onto her apron.
September:
Why don't you two go pick some tomatoes from the garden? We'll have a nice salad, she says pleasantly. They are eager to obey, and trot outside with a basket in tow. She sets a few carrots on the counter, knife ready to chop the vegetables into thin slices. Suddenly, it is hard for her to breathe. Too hard. She feels herself falling down, then an aching blackness.
October:
She can't remember the last time she has stood up. It feels like she has lain on this bed forever. They flicker in and out, mumbling questions and updates on their lives. She smiles as they talk, as if she can hear them coherently. She can't. The noise in her head is too loud.
November:
They enter the room, faces stricken. She mutters something to assure them that she feels fine, even though she does not. They can tell, by her panting and the way her skin pours sweat onto the bed sheets. She turns to them, and asks them to alchemize a flower, because he used to do that. They don't seem to understand...
December:
It has been one month since the death of Trisha Elric. Two small, golden-haired boys stand stoically by her grave, each coated with snow. Their faces are red and scrunched up against the cold, and half-frozen tears run down their faces. They say nothing, and can only think of the day they will see her face again; it will take time, they know. But they will bring her back, because she is their mother.