June came in softly this year. Four days in, it came to me that the calendar had turned a page.
The previous five Junes came in with a cloud, dark, roiling, impenetrable—a cloud that hung over all thirty days. It was June six years ago when Charlie died.
I haven’t been able to make much sense of things since then, but one thing that speaks strongly to me is that the sun goes down and the sun comes up again.
Cycles. It’s the cycles in life that I find comfort in. Especially the short-term cycles—day and night, the seasons, the leaves that fall off the trees, the leaves that grow back.
This morning it is foggy. On my seven o’clock walk, I studied the haze hanging in front of the tree line behind the houses on the street that runs perpendicular to mine. The distant trees were gray. Those closer to me were gray-green with clearer definition. Up in the sky I could see a ball of light behind the fog.
Life after loss is that way. The faraway future is unclear. Fog blankets everything. Things closer in, you can see faintly. The sun is behind the gray.
You know it’s there. It’s stronger than the clouds. In time, as the morning goes by, it burns the fog away and stands against the heavens, leaving wisps of memories.