Four Small Doors

はるのかぜ
ひらかれたまま
ときがまわる

haru no kaze / hirakareta mama / toki ga mawaru
spring wind / the door left open / time keeps turning

Someone once asked me, “What’s your favorite month of the year?”
I wanted to give a simple answer, something quick and tidy, but months aren’t tidy.
Months are four small doors we walk through again and again,
each one opening into a different version of ourselves.

If I had to choose, I would choose all of them
for different reasons
and different versions of me.

Spring is a shy knock.
You hardly notice it at first.
Just a small shift in the air,
the smell of damp soil,
the feeling that something warm is waiting just beyond the next corner.
You walk through a park and the grass looks tired,
but the tiredness is good,
like someone waking up slowly after a long dream.
Small green buds appear on branches, so small you feel guilty staring at them.
But you can’t help it.
They are hope in its most fragile form.

Summer enters like someone pushing open every window in the house.
It sweeps in loud and bright, unapologetic.
Your skin becomes a diary of warmth and salt.
You sweat and it feels like a tiny prayer leaking from your pores,
a request for the days to last just a little longer.
Fruit bruises in your hand because it is too alive,
too full,
too ready.
Nights grow thick and sticky,
cicadas screaming like old radios left on too long.
You stay out later than you meant to.
Summer convinces everyone to be a slightly wilder version of themselves.

Autumn arrives in a low voice.
If summer shouts, autumn murmurs.
Leaves turn into letters,
pages of a book you forgot you were writing.
They fall without apology,
soft little farewells collecting on sidewalks,
on car rooftops,
in the folds of jackets hung by the door.
The air tastes like the inside of an old wooden drawer.
You breathe in,
and memory breathes out.
Autumn is where all reflection begins.

Winter is a white hush.
A season that holds its breath.
Cold hands gripping still air,
the world simplified into two colors
and the sound of your own footsteps.
Dreams sleep warm under blankets,
and the sky feels closer,
almost touchable.
There is a strange comfort in the quiet,
as if the whole world is finally willing to rest.

And the world keeps turning.
Not to start again,
but to continue
with different light.

So when I am asked about my favorite month,
I never know how to answer honestly.

Do I choose the soft beginnings of March,
when the air itself feels like a new page?

Or the golden burn of August,
when nights stretch like dark honey?

Or the October twilight,
where every street becomes a memory you have not lived yet?

Or the deep, silent January nights,
when the smallest light feels like salvation?

The truth is,
I love the year like a novel that refuses to end.
Every month holds its own room,
its own scent,
its own strange magic.

If I must choose,
I choose the door that is opening right now,
whatever it happens to be.

Because each month teaches me something different:
how to wake,
how to burn,
how to let go,
how to rest.

Four small doors, always turning.
And I walk through them
with different versions of myself,
each one carrying a slightly different light.