June is an Island

June is an island. And the only inhabitants are my girl and me.

June is an island of anticipations and in-betweens

Long days of list making and preparations for the voyage ahead.

We hold each other tighter these days as death and loss has become real to her - both the loss of people and the fading of childhood she so desires to do over again - even if just the last five years she says, while we lay on her bed in the cocoon of her childhood bedroom. One single wall painted powder pink in the home numbered 45 on a street named after a mountain.

Our walks are longer here on our island - there is an awareness of life playing out and we don’t want to miss a moment. So we stop at favorite old trees, breathe in the jasmine that lines the over grown paths we can still walk through with eyes closed. Climb up neighborhoods that played backdrop to seasons of brokenness and bliss and we remember days before the dog and laugh about the scooter that was stolen from the front porch that one summer.

She cries in the shower when she thinks I can’t hear her and all that water reminds me of the waves from a very different June on an island off the coast of Spain where I found myself. I whisper a prayer to God that she too find herself like her mother did - but to make it sooner than 36.

June on our island feels like the last sip of an Italian cappuccino in the early morning before the day begins

That moment of pause and anticipation before a long adventure ahead

The familiarity of espresso and thick milk that teases every taste bud - and you can’t tell if it’s the best coffee of your life or the timing and setting

The chatter of crowds around you blurs into a symphony of voices turned into your private concerto

The relaxed nature of your posture because there is nowhere to be now only someone new to become

And the foam lingers upon the top lip as a reminder of the decadence of life once enjoyed

June is an island of lingering in the past while we await the boat to our future.