[Allamandas, a flower whose name resembles my Alamanda's name.]
I always feel better when I haven't noticed it's June yet. And when I haven't yet connected the beginning of June with its tail end. I haven't connected the budding, green world of late spring as summer vacation begins with the last moments of June, the darkest day of the calendar year when we pull out the pictures of my baby that start with ultrasounds and end with images of caskets and headstones. I never dreamed eight years ago that such a bright, happy time of the year could end so darkly.
My world as I knew it ended that beautiful, sunny day. Everything since has been a process of scrambling to piece together the shards of a shattered, bloody heart. Every June since has started with the sun shining and ended in the abyss where it feels light will never shine again.
There was a time I loved June, looked forward to it, cherished it as a perfect time of the year, when the sun hasn't quite baked the color out of the world, and the baby animals are still finding their feet. Now, it's a month reminiscent of dying flowers beside a tiny grave with dates too close together and shabby rainbows representing the younger babies I would carry but never hold.
I miss a green, happy June like I miss my smile before catastrophic loss. But, somehow, life goes on, anyway. I will survive until July, when the sun can shine again. I will keep that picture book that ends too abruptly in its place on the shelf until the end of the month, when we will remember her short life with tears and warm memories but also pain. I know, one day, I will be able to hold her again. I know families can be together forever. But for now, June hurts. And I can either accept that or pretend I can replace what is with what "should be." Life will go on with the pain. I've accepted that. And that will have to do.
