There’s a period of time in late November and early December where I think I like winter. I prefer cold weather, certainly, but the next time I try to convince myself that I like short days, a muddy garden, and fewer delicious fruits and vegetables at the grocery store, I’d like someone to gently remind me that I’m a liar and a fraud and have no idea what I’m talking about.
I don’t like deep summer, either. I’m horribly picky about weather, and prefer transitory seasons; fall has all the chill of winter without the oppressive darkness, and spring has the warmth and growth I like in summer without giving me heat-induced rage. I begrudgingly admit I might like the sun, no matter how many times, come summer, I’ll try to deny it.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) Ancient Greek ἥλιος for sun
A sun worshiper.
The sun appears like a great eye overheard. Mira slinks from dune to dune to keep out of its sight, heart thudding every time the light touches her skin. The sun is hot and life-giving, but it also sees. She can’t afford to be seen, not now.
Mira likes the darkness, the embrace of night, the coolness of the moon on the sand. To say so is blasphemy, so she must sprint in the shadows, praying the sun doesn’t spot her. The sun is mighty, powerful, a god; she can’t avoid it forever, but she clings to darkness, trying.