A Letter to June

Dear June,

There was a morning, I will tell you now, that I dreaded your arrival. It was not personal, you must know, just me being dramatic.

There was a night during your stay when I realized you were liminal. It was somewhere in the middle, and I thought, am I even here?

And then remember that day during twilight, when we lay in bed and listened to the rain? The sheets were cold, and the air was crisp, and I was grateful to you then.

There was lightning, and there was thunder, so much that it shook the walls. That is no easy feat, June— this house, she has old bones.

But when you came, you brought the hydrangeas, the ones in blue and white. And the ants crawled up the peonies, pushing petals filled with dew.

Some days—I will admit it—the sunlight felt too long. I am a creature of the dark months; I think this to be true.

Yet you brought me to the river, and I spent time with their gods. They told me you were fleeting, and the calendar agreed.

So I slipped into your rhythm, and I let the salt gather on my skin. I sat late on the porch rocker, and I drank bourbon with melting ice.

I helped a caterpillar escape the foyer, and I let a spider stay inside. A baby bat has fallen from a shutter, and I worried for its mom.

June, you brought the beauty in things both alive and gone. You brought the growth I knew I needed but could not find on my own.

You were the visitor I never asked for, but you came, and here we are. Thank you for the fireflies and thank you for the storms.

(Paid subscribers can listen to this letter read aloud by Shelby.)

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