I’m sitting on the edge of my stark-white windowsill. I press my forehead against the screen, and breathe in the luscious smell of freshly cut grass. I can hear my dad out front mowing the lawn, see sweat clinging to his red neck as he plows ahead in the cool summer heat.

The trees sway slightly in the light breeze, too lazy to move their leaves more than a couple inches. The birds chirp and the sun beats down as I smile out my little frame of happiness.

As I turn around, back toward the inside of my bedroom, I smell the scent of cleaning chemicals, both potent and wonderful at the same time. My door is open, and I see my mom in the hallway, scrubing the banister, seemingly trying to get rid of the memory of winter. It’s already halfway washed away by spring, but my mom wants no winter; she wants none of the cold and dry season lingering in her house during her summer; her favorite season.

I twist back to my window, smell the air, feel the freedom of what is freshness and warmth and… summer.