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In the end, it wasn’t a long time. Between the winter and the thawing spring; the finality of their time together at the cottage. It didn’t feel fast, of course. Each day felt sluggish, stretched out, some seeming to have no significance at all. But when memories slip like demons to the front of the mind, it looks to be such a tiny slice of time. It looks like what happened did so quickly. Two seasons. Would a winter and a spring ever mean so much again? Each of those days played their role. If they could go back, would they know which one to change? What to do differently? The days that felt like nothing might well have been turning points. What if they hadn’t left the cottage this or that day? What if they’d stayed in, or gone out? What if they’d skipped classes? What if they hadn’t?
