IF WINTER COMES, TELL IT I'M NOT HERE

Summer’s really fun—so will winter be terrible?

“Swimming is my favorite thing,” opines the protagonist from a pool, wearing red trunks and puffy yellow water wings. From this overhead view, wavery lines indicate the water’s movement around swimmers and across the pool’s pale blue tiles. But time marches forward, and a sister will begin the taunting. “Summer’s going to end soon,” she announces with a superior air, alarming the protagonist with forecasts of short days, leafless trees, being “stuck on the sofa for days,” and such chilly temperatures that even ice cream won’t appeal. But when fall and winter arrive, they hold their own delights. Chilly air allows nestling in a parent’s long scarf. Being “stuck on the sofa” means the family snuggles together under a quilt. Rain brings bright red boots, a yellow umbrella, and a chance to stomp puddles. And who needs ice cream when there’s cocoa? It’s an interracial family, with a White-appearing dad and Asian-appearing mom; the narrator looks an awful lot like Dad while big sister looks like Mom. A paradox makes the premise flimsy: A child who can imagine far enough ahead to fear future seasons would probably already hold some memory about what last winter was like—and be less vulnerable to a sibling’s dire prediction. Ciraolo’s art is inconsistent, sometimes seasonally evocative, sometimes seeming slapdash, with an odd, expressionist vibe. The text on the closing spreads peters out into dullness.

There are many better chronicles of changing seasons.