When Winter begins, initially trees are left bare. Muscle memory of branches getting stronger and leaves becoming weaker, when suddenly, they become separate all-together. The imprint of cracks and homes and whatever grew there, etched in copper bark. Although the trees in Florida don’t lose as many leaves as the other states... around late January, there are these pigmented, red leaves that develop along the grid of the branches. I don’t know their name and they don’t say much, but when they do, they make this whistling sound against the bark. They’re hopeful and cheery, but you won’t find them unless you pay close enough attention. 
Sitting along the curb, in my school’s deserted parking lot, there are about a dozen trees. All these trees have grown their leaves. All of them are beginning to sprout for Spring, blossoming into pieces of art for all the other trees to look at. Then there’s the tree above me. My knees curled up towards my face, all I can hear is my own breathing. My nose is cold. My face is pink. My head tilts upwards. This tree has no leaves. I resonate with this tree, on the idea that not all of us have planted seeds for Spring. Not all of us are so vocal about our hopeful red leaves.  
It’s almost funny, actually,  because there’s this lingering concept that we associate Winter with companionship, and the joy of being with others. Curl up to keep warm together by a crackling fire, spend holidays together, creating these goals and aspirations for the New Year. Together. I can’t say I feel the warmth quite as they do. Winter here is always the same, the same 50-degree weather, the sun always unapproachable, the feeling of nothingness compared to summer euphoria. Autumn sun brings Winter shadows, and I’m stuck in a loophole of January. I’m looking at the tree, and wondering if she could speak what might she say about the fact that every tree here is igniting with little red leaves and she doesn’t have any. These trees have blossomed, she tells herself, these trees are ready for Spring, and hope, these trees are happy without even trying. 
 
Some people are sad all the time, and some people are sad just one time every year. It isn’t even that uncommon, so why does the guilt of being surrounded by so many happy people somehow, some way, only make me sadder?  I dread the cold. I dread numb fingertips and lavender-painted skin. I dread fierce wind and the rotting bark. The pit in my heart is affected the way the geese know when to migrate. I distance myself. I leave behind breadcrumbs for only few to follow and I am content with that. I’m content with the isolation. I’m content with the loneliness. Is this a burden to others? To be sad when literally everyone else is happy? Why can’t I grow red leaves along my spine and feel some sort of hope? Why can’t I, too be a piece of art for other trees to gawk at? 
My feet are ice. I’m in a cold sweat and I wake up feeling one thing when I want to feel another. I want the warmth, the hope, and the beauty. I want to feel the sun on my bare back and swallow pink lemonade like it’s in season. I don’t want the cold. I don’t want the hurt, or the breaking of every piece of ice my life freezes into. Stuck trying to put on a positive face. But right now, in this moment, I’m cold. And I don’t want it anymore. 
When I see the tree that’s hanging gracefully above me, I can only wallow at her ability to find Sun in the darkest places. I can only imagine physically seeing the hope on these entities, while your own hope decays. Do you know how sad it is to become so self-aware you can only watch yourself get weaker?  I stand up, I walk away from the tree, she’s watching as I disappear. I’m watching as my vision pans the area, and that’s when I see three lucky red leaves carefully waning from the branches on that very tree. Hidden from the naked eye, I watch them dance in the wind. Slowly, she is sprouting red leaves on the very branches that sat through harsh winters of the past. For a second, I can see it. I can see her hope. But that’s the thing, hope is there. And yes, it’s worth looking for.