She opened the back door. Cold air rushed in, and Maya shivered but stepped outside anyway. They walked to the edge of the yard, where the last oak tree still held a few stubborn brown leaves.
Maya seemed satisfied. She closed her eyes, and the snow kept falling, silent and certain, paying no attention at all to the calendar hanging in the kitchen. months for the seasons
“It’s wrong,” she muttered.
Lena had never understood why the calendar argued with the world outside her window. She opened the back door
This particular November morning, she stood at the back door with a mug of coffee, watching her breath fog the glass. The calendar said autumn. The thermometer said 23 degrees. Maya seemed satisfied
“Mama,” Maya whispered, “if the months don’t match the seasons, why do we even have them?”
“They listen to the Earth,” Lena said finally. “Not to us.”