It Is June

We are here again. I say and have said, June is an island, for years on end. Not because I am alone in June, but because June for me at least, and maybe for you, seems to exist outside of time and space. It has it’s own scent and sense and it cannot be copied or recreated. No matter what happens, it feels like a gift.

I have the slightest sense of relief now that we are here. I have been superstitious and cautious and home for weeks one end. I have been still and silent and spoken to psychics. I have laid still. I have willed and prayed. I have rested with my mother. But now, June is here, and it feels almost as if, everything will be alright.

When I speak of her it is quietly and to people who are close to me, as if we could, by accident scare off her spirit. A friend told me in the beginning when I woke up bleeding in the night, just to not lose faith. That they needed me to believe it was alright. I have never worked so hard to believe one singular truth in all of my life. And here we are; in June, with a heartbeat and a nervous system and eyes. A girl. Of all the unimaginable things, that feels the most fantastical. I am terrified and thrilled and here.

My son and I make coconut ice cream and plant chives in the garden. He goes with me for blood draws and watches with fascination as the little tubes fill one by one. He asks me how many animals there are on earth and if we can still name the baby Jack. I tell him, 8.7 million and yes of course.

I am on this island and just waiting. Waiting for a few friends to read my novel. Waiting for the baby to grow. Waiting to leave for Idaho. But waiting feels like the wrong word, because in June you do not wait. You simply are. You are held in place by a thousand truths. And you are making lunch.

(This piece was originally published on my new Substack. For a time I will overlap here, but if you’d like to keep reading my work please subscribe here.)