Post- Magazine

the delightful ever changing of seasons [narrative]

so lovely to see you again


Fall is the most delicate season. The way the leaves crinkle, changing color so romantically, falling for us to step through like clouds, short-lived and fleeting. The breeze tickling us each time we walk outside without a jacket serves as a reminder of what is to come. The desire to grab something warm—a pumpkin-spiced drink or a red scarf belonging to a lover—places us in a time capsule, built not only to capture memories of exploring what is suddenly new, but also to hibernate, nestle into the heaters, blow on warm Thai and Indian dishes, and fall into a restful sleep.

During autumn, I am the most hopeful and wholesome version of myself. There’s something stronger guiding me to write the mundane activities in my life into an adventure. When I do decide to slide on my headphones, I listen to a mix of Noah Kahan, Yellow House, and Cavetown—a beautiful and tantalizing mix of pining for the bareness of nature, but also remaining in this fixture of colorful perfection. The euphoria of being outdoors, resting with my head on the leg of another, holding up my readings above my head to block out the rising sun, reminds me to behold the not-so-subtle beauty of this season. I choose to remember how delicate the weather is, how raw it is to meet so many new people at once. To me, fall signifies the beginning of something better, peeling away the stiff layers of before and revealing a bubbly, smiley child once again. 



Winter holds a fragile beauty to it, but not in the way that ice breaks when we step on it in the streets, enveloped in a coat of shivers and sniffles.

 Instead, I listen for the silence that echoes. Every time it’s not in season, I picture winter the way actors walk in slow-motion in silent films. I can’t help but remember the season by the pains of shoveling away at the snow or the incessant pulling of tissues from my pockets—the immobility of trying to navigate fun outings without bundling up. 

And yet, when winter inevitably falls upon us again, year after year without fail, I am reminded of the grace and beauty. 

Listen to the soft falling of snow, watch as it lands on her—the way she dances among the snowflakes as if she herself is an angel. She looks back at me with a soft and lazy gaze, as if daring me to chase after her and fall lightly into snow, which covers us gently, warm as a fitted glove.

As I lay with her, noses red, eyes watering from the brisk wind, I thank all the good and bad parts of winter for bringing her to me. Her, dressed in black from head to toe, laced with hints of color through her jewelry that I love to play with or the buttons on her jacket that look so frayed and loved. Me, dressed in a cardigan in her favorite color, in hopes that she’ll notice when she looks at me like that, with such warmth in her eyes that everything in winter melts away. The only thing I can think to say as I stare in awe is that with her, the snow suddenly feels entirely new: caressing and soothing against my goosebumped skin. 


When the flowers begin to bloom, it’s a reminder that it’s my turn to look around and notice the signs that everything around me is changing. It’s still brisk outside from the remnants of winter, but the light, so full and bright, reflects bravely down onto me.

When I wake in the morning, I immediately find natural light and to me, that’s enough to make my day better. Looking through my closet, the endless possibilities of clothing are once again offered to me. The variations of skirts, from flowy and white to straight cutoff denim, pique my interest, and the sweaters, their own form of a jacket, are enough to get me through the day until noon. The fresh air is so strong that I can’t help but stop in place and inhale the offerings from the grass, trees, and flowers. 


During this time, I even welcome the scattered downpour of rain. My Sperry boots, the ones I told my mother I would never wear here, are the ones I put on every chance I get because when I splash in the puddles, I feel like a child again, washing away every worry I’ve had—mundane and insignificant in comparison to the feel of the rain on my cheeks. No longer are my cheeks wet from stress or being tired without reason, but instead, it cleanses me of any doubt I’ve had that vibrant shades of red, pink, and purple won’t return to campus, or the varying auras of emerald, jade, and robin egg green won’t fill my vision once more.

April is the month when I turn a year older, placed right in the middle of spring, bringing forth good and solid change that I didn’t know I needed. Every year during this time, I hope that I’ll find something that sticks (writing is the recurring theme), and find blissful love for someone else who brings me bouquets of flowers without me asking. I wish to watch my mother take long walks at sunset again, cheering happily that it’s finally warm enough to not have to bundle up incessantly with each neighborhood walk she takes. 

Spring also brings sad showers. It’s a reminder that something so innocent and new is coming to an end. It’s time to look forward to what the next season will bring, which is hopefully something productive in the months without classes, or new connections in the world I’ll soon call my own, swapping out my pretty floral skirts and plain monochrome sweaters for something more form-fitting and serious. When I look in the mirror, I see a trial of my life I’m not ready for, but spring has brought her to me and for that, I must embrace her with open arms. 


Bold brave sun, bold brave heart. Burning under the heat of its gaze makes me tired but so full of feverish joy, yet I find myself begging for any other season to come back. Summer is the season I look forward to the least, as it buffers the moments I cherish most, while lacking the most structure. While most look forward to the relaxing and wandering nature of June, July, and August, I prefer to have a schedule made compatible with my time.

However, the outfits that I craft in the summer, and the string of music reserved solely for this time, make it so much sweeter. Flowy short bottoms with tight tank tops, decorated with crocheted flowers or beaded jewelry—it’s the time to experiment with my style. I watch as my skin tans under the sun—taking a cold shower after being in the sun all day feels like being reborn, shedding off the layers I choose and keeping the ones that make me better.

Walking down the stairs, feeling the cool tiles against my burnt feet, I rummage through the fridge to find the bountiful harvest of fruit waiting for me: watermelon, honeydew, sumo oranges, cherries, and apricots. My mouth salivates at the sweet stain of red that the berries leave on my lips—a natural shade of lipstick I can appreciate. In the background, I inhale the barbecue ribs that my dad grills in the backyard or the lamb skewers my mom coats in a citrusy, spicy rub.

Later, I’ll sneak off towards the fireworks or the depths of my backyard near the woods, where I’ll run to my car with the top down, scream the lyrics to my favorite summertime songs, or just listen quietly to the lullabies of Japanese House with my eyes closed, breathing in the unknown of tomorrow that I had been so scared of before. 

Just like the seasons, I am constantly evolving. With time comes change, comes uncertainty. But, slowly, I am learning to embrace the way that maybe the things around me aren’t changing, but I’m forming into someone new, who’s ready to take in all that nature has to offer. Nothing stays the same, and for that, I am forever grateful.

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