What is May Without June

May passes me by, leaking through my hands like the blood of a cherry, staining my fingers red. The pit rests in my palm; June is here.  

The summer air is wafting through the open window, and my eggs are simmering on the stove. The subtle breeze does little to relinquish me from the heat of the sunlight that kisses the kitchen, but I do not mind. Cicadas are humming quietly, and I am content. I think I love mornings the best when the rest of the world is still asleep and my only company is the anticipation of an empty day. Selfishly, I am content.

Selfishly, because I tend to wallow in my happy moments. Knowing it will not last, I try to immerse myself in it, like slowly sinking into a hot tub on a cold day, trying to memorize the way the warmth clings to my skin. In these moments, I wish I could bottle up this feeling and keep it in my back pocket so I can sip on it in increments on my worst days, savoring the taste of it on my tongue. Isn’t that why they say what they say? To live in the moment? Is that why I am so selfish? Because the moment will not last, at least not last long, which is all the more reason to enjoy it now. 

And then I wonder if this pondering is why I can’t seem to be present. I put such pressure on myself to enjoy, to cherish a moment, and then I think too much about how I’m feeling and suddenly the moment has passed. Such a waste of a girl, such rumination, and for what? We always dream of a longer summer, longer days, more sun and warmth, and less work. We spend so much time wishing, and I blink and I am not seven years old anymore. My legs no longer burn from riding a bike around the cul-de-sac, and my hands are no longer stained with chalk but the tears of stress and the countdown for hide-and-seek turn into the countdown for the weekend, and I am no longer content.

Life is short, and though this is not a secret, I tend to turn a blind eye to the truth. Life is short, and I have wasted my days away in a thousand, ill-advised ways. I feel as if I’ve wasted my days away selfishly, deliciously, horridly. I sit in my chair, reading to escape the reality of my world, and I can’t help but think to myself that I am wasting away my days. There is so much beauty, so much to explore in this world I was born into, yet my first instinct is to escape, to spend my time with people who aren’t real and places that don’t exist. Such a waste of a girl, such a shame. 

This is not to say that I don’t find beauty in the world. I do, I truly do. It surprises me how the fear and the hope I house in myself do not fight each other. The deep, paradoxical feelings linger in my limbs but do not paralyze me. It is beautiful how I am full of contradictory emotions but still manage to go for a morning run and make my coffee and listen to my favorite songs without drowning. How scary it is, how beautiful it is. 

It is the fear, the grief, and the yearning that will push me forward like a loaded gun pressed to the base of my spine. May seeps into June, and the death of Spring births the infant of Summer. I resent time passing but still look forward to the next thing, like I'm searching for something but I don’t know what yet. I reduce my experiences to metaphors and my memories to coins I keep in my wallet in hopes of never using them, never losing them. I pass by a window and instead of seeing my reflection, I see the thousands of funerals of who I used to be. I see the faces of everyone I have ever loved, the eyes of my mom, the smile from my best friend, hands of my first love. I am a walking morgue.

May steps out the back door, and June rings the doorbell. The eggs are burning on the stove, and the kitchen feels like it is suffocating from the summer humidity. It is quiet now, but uncomfortably so. I can’t help but ask myself, am I content? Am I happy? 

June will persevere, and I still will not have an answer.