Here I sit, the sun is on my back like a warm hand. The breeze reminds me of the months I’ve just endured, the icy-hands that clawed at my ears and froze my nose. I hated those. But this breeze is different.
There are no teeth in this air.
This is much better. The soft grass under my knees is wet: still wet. It will dry out soon, the sun will see to that.
I like him, the sun. Mom says that soon I won’t. She says that he turns evil and can burn me if I’m not careful.
I hope she’s wrong.