When the cottonwoods bloom and the warm summer air whips the little fuzz balls around, it's like it's flurrying in July. The white snow dances through the air seemingly immune to the brutality of the sun. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I often stand outside in the middle of my little postage stamp of claimed earth and let the cooked summer air heat me up like a giant blow dryer, while the scorching, dog day snow storm overtakes me with outstretched arms and a smile wide enough to taste the summer snow. As the soft flakes tickle my face and nose and while my eyelids blink rapidly, fending off the floating white intruders, my happiness remains even though it's become spiked with sadness. This is my last season, the final pages of my life.

I could tell you that I'm dying but old people like me don't die. We just kind of fade away, our layers slowly blown off like a dandelion in a slow steady breeze. Each microscopic seed representing a sister, a friend, a husband, or even a child that the wind carries off into nothingness, the earth swallowing each of their lives into a void, turning them into just a memory in your head, one that, only if you're lucky, will stay there a while.