Fred Aiken Writing

The summer breeze was a lair, warm and honeyed, masking the sorrow it carried from the nearby fields. Eve stood on the porch of her childhood home, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, her suitcase a sentinel of her return. She hadn’t been back since the funeral three years ago, and now, here she was, summoned by the invisible string of family obligation and the scent of unfinished business.

Spring had always been her favorite season, a time when the world seemed to unfurl with promise, green and tender and full of potential. But summer held its own gravity, the heat binding her to memories that she’d once tried to bury under layers of urbanity and distance. In summer, everything was exposed, raw and unapologetic, like a scar that never wants to heal.

Eve pushed open the screen door, its hinges protesting, and stepped inside. The house smelled the same—faded lilac potpourri mixed with the faint mustiness of age. Her mother’s presence lingered in the air, an old ghost that still haunted the corners and creaked the floorboards. She dropped her suitcase in the hallway and headed to the kitchen, where the afternoon sun filtered through lace curtains, casting delicate shadows that danced like memories on the linoleum floor.

She found the old percolator on the stove, exactly where it had always been. As she waited for the coffee to brew, she wandered to the back porch, overlooking the garden. Weeds had claimed it, wildflowers interspersed with the remnants of her mother’s roses. Eve’s fingers itched to pull the weeds, to restore order, but she knew that some things were beyond repair.

The garden had always been her sanctuary. Spring brought a laughing riot of colors—daffodils, tulips, and crocuses bursting forth in a symphony of renewal. She’d spend hours here as a child, planting, pruning, and daydreaming under the watchful eye of her mother. Spring was a painter, each stroke a new possibility, a reminder that life began again.

The creak of the floorboards interrupted her reverie. Turning, she saw a man standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the kitchen. It took a moment for her to recognize him—Jack, the boy who’d lived next door, now grown into a man with the same soulful eyes and a weathered smile.

“Eve,” he said, his voice a mixture of surprise and nostalgia. “I heard you were back.”

She nodded, words escaping her. Jack stepped onto the porch, the screen door snapping shut behind him. They stood there, the silence between them thick with years of unspoken words and missed opportunities.

“Coffee?” she offered, finally finding her voice.

He smiled, a slow, familiar curve of his lips that sent a jolt of something long-forgotten through her. “Sure, why not?”

They sat on the porch steps, steaming mugs in hand, the summer heat wrapping around them like an old, heavy blanket. They talked about everything and nothing, their conversation weaving through the past and present, laughter mingling with the bittersweet undertones of shared history.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Eve felt the tightness in her chest begin to ease. The garden, once a symbol of loss and neglect, now seemed like a canvas waiting for a new season of care. She realized that summer, with its relentless exposure and honesty, was not her enemy but a reminder that some truths needed to be faced head-on.

Jack’s presence was like a balm, his easy demeanor and familiar smile a bridge to the girl she once was. She found herself wondering what it would be like to stay, to rebuild the garden and maybe, just maybe, herself in the process.

“You know,” she said, looking out at the twilight-soaked garden, “I used to think spring was my favorite season. Everything felt so new, so full of promise.”

Jack looked at her, his eyes soft with understanding. “And now?”

“Now,” she sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips, “I think I’m starting to see the beauty in summer. It’s honest, demanding. It forces you to face things, to let go and grow.”

He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “That and they say in a few years we won’t have any seasons. Just one long, interminable summer.” They awkwardly laughed at his apocalyptic climate joke. Though was it even really a joke, she wondered.

As the first stars blinked into existence above them, Eve felt a sense of peace settle in her bones. Summer, with all its brutal clarity, had shown her that coming back didn’t have to mean looking back. It could mean starting over, planting new seeds in the fertile soil of acceptance and moving forward.

And in that moment, with the warmth of the day lingering and the promise of night ahead, Eve knew she was home.