You wake up to find that June has come. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere. And just like that, your room has been upgraded from monotone to technicolor.
June runs to you, an audacious spectacle drenched in a spectrum of hues, and has come over for a play date. June brings an enormous box of crayons, and by noon will have used every single one.
June stays the night, saturates the morning. There is so much light that your sleep shrivels into a shrunken remains of hours.
You ask how June got here. Via April and May, technically. But seriously: already?
You’re not ready for it. June is unconcerned.
June desires a picnic. Wants to bring everything. All you have to do is show up. You’re not sure if you’re in the mood for a picnic, but June doesn’t wait for you to decide one way or the other. June will go through with it as originally and most beautifully planned.
Will begin with a clamor of songs from the canopy—a recital of insistence. Never have you heard such voices of need, such calls of protection and loyalty. What perfection of pitch, each single one.
Next, the cottontails. Why not? It’s true, they’re voracious little puffballs. No discerning taste. But look at those adorable outfits. You’ll allow it.
The Owls. June insists they join you. You want to talk to them, but don’t dare to.
-Pretend you’re not intimidated, June says to you.
You try that out. Maybe they won’t notice you. Who do the owls remind you of? Everyone.
You spot some bucks in the field. Their antlers are gaining in height, forking into regal, distinct points. By now the does are over them. Completely. Besides, the fawns need to be monitored as they stumble under the legs of their mothers and their aunts. Those spotted darlings are so dear that you don’t mind that they’re eating the trees you’ve just planted. June doesn’t mind either—there’s a fully stocked pantry waiting back at the house.
June is relieved to find the maples arriving with their gloves on. The meaty-fingered Big Leafs, the demure Vines; the elegant, refined Japanese. Such style! Those maples land on the Best Dressed list every year. All of them.
Then, the bats—those Mavericks of the air. June invites them for dinner, tells them to arrive at dusk. They accept, and do. Feast on hordes of erratic, tiny bugs.
Finally, the conifers. You ask if they actually taller than last year. June shrugs (with a smirk). Won’t say for sure. Their newest needles are electric, sprout all the way up the spine. One hundred feet of solitude. There’s only a few you can actually look in the eye.
Later in the evening, June exhales toward the moody sky. This current of air should be enough breath for all, but it isn’t. Even June has its limits. Even June breaks down at some point. But you can’t let it break you—it’s part of life, this death.
Displaced nests; the broken, blue eggs. Eggs so small you can’t believe anything could have lived inside. The color of the cracked shell is unforgettable. It’s the sort of blue to make a Tiffany’s box turn green with envy.
Over there, stunned waxwings on the ground. Fallen flickers under the window. Let’s not even consider the spotted ones who will never feel an antler’s itch on their brow. Stolen, unnameable others—all of them too still to hold a beating heart.
Some of them look perfectly drawn. Tactile Audubon portraits right there in front of you. You want to touch them, but you know you shouldn’t. You want to bury them but then you don’t.
June brings its beauty and its bounty, but not everything will survive. This is a lesson you did not want to learn.
There’s no maliciousness in this kind of loss. No cruelty. There is only cruelty when the sense of loss is entirely denied. You aren’t prepared to lose any of it, but you weren’t prepared for the beauty either.
June goes one. Brings cherries the very next day. Waxy Bings and ombre Rainiers. They exemplify summer while also informing you that this is the beginning of the end of summer.
In defiance you eat the cherries until you’re almost sick. You will eat them in order to feed yourself so much summer that summer won’t be able to leave you too soon. But summer always leave too soon, leaving just at the hour when you feel as if you are finally ready for it.
June warned you about this. Told you to go out anyway.
-Take the beauty. And take the loss as it is. Only for what it is…
So go out there. Whether you’re ready or not.
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June got into you. Even better, Angela became June. Beautiful observations, beautiful lines. Yes and yes agaiin, we're not prepared to lose any of it. But we're not prepared for this beauty either. Bravo, with a bow.
Brilliant! You found a way to describe so many of the emotions I feel this time of year. And I loved the description of Maple tree varieties being named to the “Best Dressed List” every year. ☺️🍁