A Season for Remembering

By Chloe Alves

Art by Sophie Dunlap

Spring arrives,

and with it, my father—

woven into amber sunlight,

threaded through the hush of early blooms.

He lingers in the golden hush of morning,

impossible to miss,

like warmth stretching after winter’s last breath.

Spring was always ours.

Laughter spilling across Hyde Park lawns,

pigeons scattering in our wake,

swan boats carving lazy arcs across the water.

Market stalls bursting with wildflowers,

his voice at my ear—

"Pick some, for your mum."

Lace-trimmed socks, glossy Mary Janes,

his way of dressing me in the season’s delight.

Sticky ice cream fingers, a steady hand in mine,

his grip certain, unshakable.

Spring was music,

windows down, wind carrying his off-key singing.

It was Sunday strolls with no destination,

weekends that stretched like forever,

the promise that there was always time for joy.

He made everything feel like an occasion.

Even a walk along the Thames,

tourists gathering at Buckingham Palace—

as a child, I believed it was the most important place in the world.

"My dad took me to see the Queen!"

Never mind we were just two faces in the crowd.

Spring meant fresh starts.

New shoes for the season, new flowers in the garden,

new obsessions he always indulged.

When I wanted to be Sharpay from High School Musical,

he nodded seriously—

"Then you’ll need the sparkliest outfits."

When I swore, I’d marry Justin Bieber,

he only laughed—

"Just make sure I get an invite.”

But he hated my indecision,

the way I’d say, "I don’t know," when I clearly did.

"You always know," he’d sigh.

"Just pick something and own it."

And I never did anything on time.

Always asking at the eleventh hour,

fully expecting him to sort it out.

"Why do you do this to me?" he’d groan—

already fixing it.

I did it up until our last conversation.

Now, though he is gone,

spring still hums with his presence—

in the hush of the breeze,

the rhythm of April’s gentle rain,

the golden light stretching the days a little longer.

I see him in tulips pressing toward the sun,

in the laughter of passers-by,

in every small joy the season brings.

His love is stitched into every petal,

every sky-brushed morning.

Spring was his season—

and because of him,

it will always be mine.