Spring. His nurses have petals in their hair, and they tell him that there is a breeze from the south outside his window. He tries to stop them from putting the shorn fingers of cherry trees in his room.

Summer. Doctors sneak away, stealing half-hours to prepare for their festivals, their sweethearts. He remembers the celebrations in his village and hates the word ‘tradition.’

Fall. The rain licks at his window. He imagines the feeling of untamed water as an orderly swipes him with damp washcloths, as if he might melt.

Winter. He sleeps, waiting for a world without seasons.

***End
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