“Spring,” I tell him. “In summer, everything changes. There’s a relentless hum of cicadas, smell of wild oregano and fennel. Soil parched, too hot to stand on barefoot. In fall, the dry smell of immortelle and rosemary, dampened by dewy, foggy mornings. Windless calms binding the sea in place. And in winter, sharp chilly winds, piercing through however many layers of clothes you have on, the skin on your hands chapped and red until you can’t straighten your fingers. Salt lifted off the sea, filling your nostrils, purifying you.”
