Of Love

If relationships have seasons, we are in fall.

The greenery and flowers have faded

leaving only our spindly frames.

Carl ripped the note from its conspicuous spot on the front door. “Hey Marge! What’s this supposed to mean? You know I don’t understand these cryptic scribbles of yours!”

An unusual silence greeted Carl’s inquiry.

“Marge? Are you here?” Carl peeked in the kitchen before heading back to the bedroom. “Marge?”

Carl spun around upon seeing the room empty, but suddenly stopped and turned back to the room. A note on the bed caught his attention. Perhaps it was not the note so much as it was the single pillow upon which it lay. Marge always kept the bed made up neatly, but where there were usually two pillows, there was now only one. The note was small but stood out like a billboard to Carl. He picked it up and read the words.

Spring and summer are gone

and fall has arrived;

I do not believe I can bear the winter.

“What the heck is that supposed to mean? Fall is a great time of year. You didn’t complain about last winter. Besides, is November technically fall or winter? Marge?!”

Failing to notice the half-empty closet, Carl called out several times as he made his way to the living room. His eye caught another note, slightly larger in size than the other two, beside the remote on the coffee table. He rolled his eyes as he walked over to retrieve it. “What kind of game is this, Marge?”

It was a lovely spring.

Love bloomed everywhere on flowers and trees.

Each day awoke with the anticipation of new discoveries, new blooms.

Summer was hot, but bearable.

The warmth at times unpleasant and at times refreshing.

Even so, I longed to stay in the sun and feel its warm embrace.

Carl let the note fall back to the table. “That makes no sense! What’s going on, Marge?”

The empty house did not reply.

Carl plopped on the couch and turned on the television. “Fine, go run some errands, but you’d better be home in time to fix dinner. I’ve had a rough day.”