And the sunflowers have wilted

Winter meant steamy yummy plates of food. It meant that Aama would knit us a pair of hand and feet warmers. It meant snuggling inside the blanket and watching TV shows.

Ever since I was a child, I always claimed that I loved winter, and I did — I did love winter.

Winter meant lesser and shorter school days. It meant snacking on oranges and pomelo basking underneath the sun when no clouds were in sight.

Growing up, the crisp air of autumn gave me reasons to smile for winter was on its path.

Winter meant warming up beside a bonfire and listening to the same old stories I’d heard hundreds of times but still getting excited.

I do not know when I started dreading winter. Cold hands. Desperately waiting for the sun while holding a hot cup of tea shivering in the winter breeze.

Winter meant an abundance of homemade thukpa and momo.

I am in my room and it’s a cold winter night. There is no laughter. No one to tell me stories — no warm hands to reach out for.

Winter meant winter sun.

The sunflowers have wilted.

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