They do not change like the seasons.
My mother is the height of summer:
Blistered skin, boiling blood, overwhelming.
My father is the dead of winter:
Isolating, unbearably chilled, distant.
For years I tried to be the earth’s rotation,
To spin them out of their fixed positions,
But found no strength strong enough to do so.
As a child, I often changed my perspective,
Moving myself as they remained cemented,
So I may see them in a more flattering light.
Sometimes I preferred the summer,
Until heat and hatred were too much to bear.
Sometimes I preferred the winter,
Until silence and solitude crept under my skin.
Now, I prefer neither.
