Summer will pass, like it always does. Oh, miserable summer, how I loathe thee. Everyone seems to like you for some reason beyond my comprehension. But you’ll go away eventually. You always do.

I’ll pass through miserable sunny September, through green grass and yellowing leaves.

I’ll smile at the warm, rust-like colours of October. I’ll tighten my jacket around me whilst walking through the cold wind. I’ll race the falling leaves and outrun the wind. But warm-coloured, cold-aired, leaf-kicking October will go away. No more kicking leaves just to hear them rustling. No more running around in circles, pretending to race the wind.

November is always the quiet one. Or, that’s what it seems to be. Sometimes it’s quiet. Too quiet. yet, sometimes, the roaring wind tries to put one down. Few people walk on the cold grey November streets. The autumn leaves are long gone. The trees, with their naked branches wait for the snow. Although, sometimes, the snow never comes. We live a long, cold and grey November. But, that’s what November is about. Waiting. Waiting for sweet winter. Winter would never be so sweet without cold, dreary November preceding it. Winds whisper long-forgotten names, footsteps echo on the pavement, the branches of trees cast their gloomy shadows. In moments like these, Edgar Allan Poe comes to mind.

The shadows, the ravens, the cold, dreary nights…they all fade away at some point. I’ll wake up on a cold December morning, hearing the snow. I will look outside, and everything will be white. So white, it will make my eyes water. the snow will reflect the light in an almost painful way. But that’s what makes the first snowfall beautiful. We’ll run around, leaving bootprints in the snow. The nearly frozen snow will crush under our boots. It will be cold, and we won’t feel our hands any more. Inside it will be warm. There may or may not be a fire, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters at this point is that it will be warm. We’ll spike our tea with rum and the warm tea mugs will warm up our nearly frozen fingers. We’ll look at the blizzard outside. If there won’t be a fire, we’ll just pretend there’s one. But December will also go away, with its songs and smiles and tea.

January will be completely, but not quite, very unlike December. The beginning of a new year reminds me of the old one’s end. Maybe less windy. In fact, it’s quite peaceful. the lakes will be frozen and I’ll try to skate. I’ll probably fall on my face. But I’ll just laugh about it. I’ll drink hot cocoa and warm wine and run around in the snow. My tall boots won’t be tall enough and snow would probably get in them. The snowflakes will melt in my hair and it would get wet. Eventually it would freeze. I’ll run to the next warm place and shake the snow off my boots. I’ll get warm and cosy and then go back out and run around like a maniac in the snow.

February will be ghastly. The snow will be melting and the sun will shine in all its warmth. That’s when I’ll start complaining again.

That’s where my happiness lies. In rustling, leaf-kicking October; cold and dreary November; the beautiful contrast between blizzard and fire that is December; the peaceful snowfall that is January. This is how it all happens in my head. One day, it will be this way.

I’ll have a storm of snow and leaves spinning all around me. It will be cold, but beautifully warm at the same time. I’ll have boots and gloves and long scarves. There will be tea and running and wind and laughter. That’s my kind of happiness. This is my winter storm.