It was never my favorite month, even when I was a kid and June meant the end of the school year. I don’t like the heat. All the green and flowers are pretty. I do enjoy the “laziness” of summer. It’s not that I hate summer, but I–by far!–prefer autumn and winter.
Then Chris died in June. He’s gone three years. Three. Fucking. Years. How is that even possible? June took on a whole new pall. Starting June 1st, my brain goes to, “This time X years and X days ago, he had X days to live.” And, “How did I not see what is so clear to me now?” And, “Why didn’t I _____?” Insert anything in there, and I’ve probably thought it.
And then there was last June; Frank lost his job of eighteen years. Day after Father’s Day. 11:30 am. Almost to the hour I called to tell him his son was dead. Lovely timing.
But this June, The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers (and Their Muses) releases out into the world. When my publisher told me it would release in June, I was thrilled. Maybe the weight of June would be a little less ponderous this year?
I has, in fact, been kind of magical. June is still hard. All that stuff above still happens, but there’s so much GOOD going on. The sorrow can’t sink its teeth in quite so deep, and drag me down to the depths. I suppose I could have let June ruin the release for me. I could have let the despair kill the joy. Sometimes, not feeling the pain is agonizing itself. Sometimes, being happy feels like betrayal. But it’s not. I have to remind myself of that. Letting his death steal my joy is the betrayal, because I know how much it would hurt him to be the cause of it.
June is never going to be my favorite month. It’s always going to be the month my son died. But it’s also always going to be the month The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers (and Their Muses) released, too.