The kids down the street had a lemonade stand. I smiled. The neighbors had a load of barkdust delivered. It smelled wonderful. My daughter is practicing for her spring piano recital. I think she’ll be ready. The teachers I know have a dazed look. They are ready for a break. The students I know are on the edge of giddy. They are bouncing. It’s the final push before the summer. It’s June.
Our daughter’s preschool graduation is this week. I have a friend who swears she knows someone who rented a limo for their child’s preschool graduation. This is a tad over the top. However, there is a melancholy part of me that might tear up on her last day. June is partly about endings.
We had a barbecue over the weekend. I saw out on the deck, in the sun and ate and watched the sunset play with Mt. St. Helens. The hamburger was divine, my spouse grilled bacon. The watermelon was perfect. I ate four slices. The juiced dripped down my chin and onto my white shirt. My daughter ate six slices. Inexplicably, the five-year old didn’t drip any watermelon juice on her shirt.
Later, we sat around a camp fire and roasted marshmallows. I had my s’more with no chocolate. (As a side note, I’m happy to report that I only have six weeks left of INH treatment for dormant tuberculosis. Happy day!). The fire was popping, the marshmallow was lovely, and I was surrounded by friends and family. I tried to soke up the moment. It felt like summer was starting. June is partly about beginnings.
My daughter informed me a couple of days ago that she needed new shoes. “These shoes do not fit anymore. I grew.” She is right. One day they fit, the next day they simply would not go on. I really liked her old shoes but quite clearly its time for a new pair.
That’s how I think June feels. This school year doesn’t fit anymore. These wool socks and this rain coat have got to go. I am ready for a new something, I’ve grown. June is bittersweet. Maybe that’s why lemonade stands seem appropriate. Tart lemons, lots of sugar.