Words by Caveny Mantzaris
Crimson-splattered stars land at their feet — leaves, crinkled as if burnt slowly by the low, golden sun. My children take pleasure in crunching the shriveled stars beneath their rainboots. This is the season in which they seek out stretching orchards, pluck apples from the limbs of trees, and heave ribbed pumpkins into their homes. They strum their wooden instruments by wooden fires and bathe in the soft, smokey moonlight.
. . .
My children are singing now. Their voices sail along the winds, carrying news of a baby born amongst stable animals. They spread word of winter wonderlands, blanketed in snow, and silent skies, filled with bright stars. They dream of little lambs, the smell of pine trees, and heavenly peace. I watch as they dance on ice, twirling with the crystals that fall around them.
. . .
Soon, the powdered sugar melts into grey sludge that slobbers beneath their feet. Newborn petals covered in dewy freshness herald the arrival of a new season. My children are giddy with the sensation of rebirth. They bask in a world doused in color and light. I glisten as ice seeps into my skin and budding flowers spring from my bare limbs.
. . .
To the sea! I welcome the tanned bodies of my children as they splash beneath my cool, turquoise surface. Sweet fruits dribble down from their smiling lips, and the sun beats down upon their grins. They bury into me as they sleep upon the sands. Protectiveness aches within me as I watch their peaceful slumber.
. . .
The humans call me “Mother Earth”, for I give birth to the seasons and the colors of their world. Or perhaps I have been given this title because the humans rely on me for sustenance, just as young creatures need their mother’s care. I create the eras of their lives, shape their traditions, and alter their perceptions of their existence. I suppose, at a point in any mother’s life, her children rebel against her, deciding she stands in the way of their ambitions. Deciding that their roots are tying them down and dragging them back, rather than holding them steady.
It seems my children have turned their backs on me. Few of them have noticed their mistreatment. That the seasons have been slowly blurring. Four distinct worlds, melting into a conglomeration of colors — transforming into something dirty and congealed. The watchful stars have faded, and the snowy owls have disappeared. By now, the humans must have noticed. Their nights harbor an eerie hum of lifelessness, and the chirping of birds and insects have gone silent.
Despite their disrespect, a mother’s love is unconditional. I will continue to care for my children and will strive to provide them with the blissful chapters of nature to which they have become accustomed. They will come back to me, as the waves return to shore. I have faith. They will recognize my love for them and feel it through the beauty of each passing season. I will glisten with pride when they, once again, honor the evergreen planes of my face and fill my heart with sweet soil.
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