rowena winters / d11 / (fin)

“Rowena, what is that smell?”

Her mother's words, like a tempest, swelled against their paper-thin walls and cured her tiredness. Immediately, Rowena rose to her two feet, aghast.

“It's nothing, mom! Just burning some sage to welcome the new year.”

The words were feverish, contrary to her well-being. As long as she could recall, Rowena had only fallen ill twice in her long sixteen years, once when she was a pigtail-wearing four years old and and came back home from school flushed, another when she was thirteen and decided to smoke a hand-rolled joint. Who knew one could, very unfortunately, be allergic to cannabis?

Of course, her disbelieving mother did not believe Rowena and was now making her way to the room. She worked posthaste like her existence had been condensed to a bare thread, and now, it indeed had.

The cauldron near the window bubbled with every content she'd meticulously threw inside — cloves which bled good luck, a coin she scooped out of a shallow wish fountain, and some finely diced sage.

This time, she was not lying, there was sage involved. She simply did not feel that it was a necessity to disclose the other ingredients, and the deeper intent behind this ritual.

It was more than for good luck.

It was an attempt to earn back everything she once lost: two houses, one father, and the pair of socks she'd painted designed upon. Some things were more trivial than others, but a loss was a loss to Rowena Winters. Each one weighted the same, each one laid itself down as a burden on her heart.

Most assumes that she would be, and connotes her with, cold due to the last name Winters. That she was all frozen over, and that her annual visitation brought along the death of a many floras and faunas. Her connotations were of black ice, frostbite, and icy nights.

But, winters bring forth cozy fires and fresh water. The snow she sheds would thaw as she exits, giving life to more plantations that grow in lieu of the ones she'd wilted to death. Her cold would, ironically, make the world more vibrant than it was before, coloring it with varicolored socks and scarfs and Ratmas ornaments. Her nights were icy, but they would lull the summer babies to a deep, cool slumber.

She was a season of change. The little deaths she let slip through the cracks were mere collateral damage. The one death she would always regret, was her Father's.

Before Rowena could ponder on any further, her slide door was drawn open and she was greeted by the irritated gaze of one Ms. Winters. Suddenly, Rowena was not so sure if her petite frame could hide the cauldron and its drifting trail of steam behind its height.

“Seriously, Ro?” She crossed her arms over her chest. It was strange to see her Mother like this: stern and lecturing. “You know the neighbors have been complaining for a week now.”