June

My legs are scratched and bruised, my shoulders are brown, just like when I was eight. I've almost fallen off a trail's edge several times now, usually in an attempt to pluck a strange wildflower or thistle. Along the way I see beetles and fire ants and rabbits and Queen Anne's lace and honeysuckle and jasmine. Earbuds in, I choreograph dances in my mind, like that time I was drunk and leaned up against our fireplace mantel, hands fluttering patterns for both themselves and the feet. You all laughed at my silliness. I kept going. 

I eat grapefruit while standing, gazing out of my kitchen window. It reminds me of my mother and of her mother. I eat California strawberries and avocados and I drink red wine and bourbon. I am happier more often than I'm not. Sometimes I press both hands into my door frame and whisper a thank you to my home for being here. Like that childhood game where you push push push then release and your arms float up like an angel's. 

I don't have the answers, not yet. And I feel guilty and uncertain and less than and too late and a failure and I apologize too much and sometimes I still cry myself to sleep. 

But then I awake. 

And I keep going.