JUNE IS THE LONGEST month. Inside these days are celebrations and revelations, book launches and staunch speeches and birthday parties and Father’s Day brunches, and pizza on the front porch with my sisters.
June is a new birdhouse, a mid-century design, the kind with large glass windows, and a perch for the big red cardinals to land on both sides. June is backyard glow-up fantasies and cat love and a letter-writing workshop, and long phone calls with old friends.
June is double meetings and a strawberry full moon that brought me to my hands and knees while bleeding to sweep away the dust that had been accumulating in the darkest corners of my bedroom, to wipe down the dirt that had gathered on the windowsills over the winter, to vacuum up all the strands of silver hair that flew off my head and into swirls of detritus in the blue rug.
June is a date with dough, the braiding and relating of it, the tenderness and technique of working with it, the fickle funk of time and temp, the labor of pushing and pulling it into a shape worthy of its ritual, the sabbath. June is starting over with a failed bread-making experiment, reviving and redeeming what would have gone in the trash had I forgotten to breathe and say I love you, dough, you feel like skin.
June is sharing a meal with sister friends on Shabbat, and sharing a meal on round trays full of savory stews from Ethiopia, and sharing a meal in a magical garden, making friendship bracelets and channeling the spirit of Frog and Toad. June is weathering the storms that ripped through our streets and tore down branches, the trees standing still and wounded in the aftermath.
June is a heatwave and a long wave goodbye to the anticipation of summer—we’re here now, and it’s hot—the shorter days coming closer, now—winter, a dream.
June is slow and June is fast and June is the sunlight on my freckled shoulders. June is porch time with the roses. June is barefoot in the backyard with green onions and fresh fistfuls of mint. June is a new way to make the bed, stack the books and organize the pens and pencils on my desk. June is the new robin’s egg blue Pyrex bowl.
June is a confrontation with squirrels and rabbits—an obsession with crows on Grove Street—a love and fear of them as we walk down one of those fancy paved alleys—a wondering if a friendship with them might yield coins or bloody skulls. You never know. Last June, we tried to befriend the crows and they brought us just that—a squirrel’s skull—and it was a tough “gift” to receive, after thinking more along the lines of trinkets.
June is a walk to the trinket trading post. And June is trouble with the seat belt. And June is the miracle of the problem fixing itself. And June is also a trip to the car wash on the hottest day of the year with a cold frozen coffee chiller in one’s hand and ordering “the whole thing,” an exterior and interior clean, and feeling so very enamored and grateful to the team of young ones taking care of all of it for you.
June is estate sales and thrift shop stops and fast-food fantasies come true like yes, Mexican pizza from Taco Bell and chicken nuggets from McDonald’s, and yes, a charred hot dog and fries from Big Herms, and yes, garlic, tomato, spinach pizza from La Rosa’s, and yes, lots of Dunkies and B’zaks, along with fresh homemade salads inspired by the Mediterranean: chunky tomatoes, cucumbers, red onions, feta, peppers, vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper, so simple, so delish!
June is a trip down winding Sheridan, a dash through the drizzle in the immaculate gardens to dip into the Bahá'í Temple, and long walks in the woods, to listen to the wind talking to the green leaves on the old trees who will be here long after all of us are gone. June is time at the post office and the library and the grocery store, a trifecta of trips I make on daily rotations, in circles of hellos and greetings and how are you?
June is a people’s prairie kind of month, a month for delicious sleep only experienced in a summer storm! June is weeding and trimming and reminiscing about June weddings. June is writing and speaking yourself into the present tense. June is flower power and a new garden hose.
June asks you to wait and stay, asks you to make books and read books in the book nook, with sunlight pouring through the window.
Say yes to June, and so long.
June is a new birdhouse, a mid-century design, the kind with large glass windows, and a perch for the big red cardinals to land on both sides. June is backyard glow-up fantasies and cat love and a letter-writing workshop, and long phone calls with old friends.
June is double meetings and a strawberry full moon that brought me to my hands and knees while bleeding to sweep away the dust that had been accumulating in the darkest corners of my bedroom, to wipe down the dirt that had gathered on the windowsills over the winter, to vacuum up all the strands of silver hair that flew off my head and into swirls of detritus in the blue rug.
June is a date with dough, the braiding and relating of it, the tenderness and technique of working with it, the fickle funk of time and temp, the labor of pushing and pulling it into a shape worthy of its ritual, the sabbath. June is starting over with a failed bread-making experiment, reviving and redeeming what would have gone in the trash had I forgotten to breathe and say I love you, dough, you feel like skin.
June is sharing a meal with sister friends on Shabbat, and sharing a meal on round trays full of savory stews from Ethiopia, and sharing a meal in a magical garden, making friendship bracelets and channeling the spirit of Frog and Toad. June is weathering the storms that ripped through our streets and tore down branches, the trees standing still and wounded in the aftermath.
June is a heatwave and a long wave goodbye to the anticipation of summer—we’re here now, and it’s hot—the shorter days coming closer, now—winter, a dream.
June is slow and June is fast and June is the sunlight on my freckled shoulders. June is porch time with the roses. June is barefoot in the backyard with green onions and fresh fistfuls of mint. June is a new way to make the bed, stack the books and organize the pens and pencils on my desk. June is the new robin’s egg blue Pyrex bowl.
June is a confrontation with squirrels and rabbits—an obsession with crows on Grove Street—a love and fear of them as we walk down one of those fancy paved alleys—a wondering if a friendship with them might yield coins or bloody skulls. You never know. Last June, we tried to befriend the crows and they brought us just that—a squirrel’s skull—and it was a tough “gift” to receive, after thinking more along the lines of trinkets.
June is a walk to the trinket trading post. And June is trouble with the seat belt. And June is the miracle of the problem fixing itself. And June is also a trip to the car wash on the hottest day of the year with a cold frozen coffee chiller in one’s hand and ordering “the whole thing,” an exterior and interior clean, and feeling so very enamored and grateful to the team of young ones taking care of all of it for you.
June is estate sales and thrift shop stops and fast-food fantasies come true like yes, Mexican pizza from Taco Bell and chicken nuggets from McDonald’s, and yes, a charred hot dog and fries from Big Herms, and yes, garlic, tomato, spinach pizza from La Rosa’s, and yes, lots of Dunkies and B’zaks, along with fresh homemade salads inspired by the Mediterranean: chunky tomatoes, cucumbers, red onions, feta, peppers, vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper, so simple, so delish!
June is a trip down winding Sheridan, a dash through the drizzle in the immaculate gardens to dip into the Bahá'í Temple, and long walks in the woods, to listen to the wind talking to the green leaves on the old trees who will be here long after all of us are gone. June is time at the post office and the library and the grocery store, a trifecta of trips I make on daily rotations, in circles of hellos and greetings and how are you?
June is a people’s prairie kind of month, a month for delicious sleep only experienced in a summer storm! June is weeding and trimming and reminiscing about June weddings. June is writing and speaking yourself into the present tense. June is flower power and a new garden hose.
June asks you to wait and stay, asks you to make books and read books in the book nook, with sunlight pouring through the window.
Say yes to June, and so long.
