|Photo Credit: Bronwyn Gordon|
May chases quiet moments out of corners, herds sleepy children into place. May punctuates everything with a performance, a party, a trophy. Calendars rise up like suds in a sink full of dishes and too much soap. Water seeps onto the kitchen floor until, suddenly, the drain is opened. School will be out. Children will lie sluggish on couches, bathed in dusty sunbeams. Long days will embrace gardens and swimming pools and racing tanned up bodies.
May is the trial of fire, the test of motherhood. You can write in May, or you can mother. You can cook, or you can attend the last soccer game, sandwiches in hand.
In May, before the summer comes, everything is bathed in golden light and calcified with significance. Tick tock. Six more days.
Six more days to freedom.