By Sonya Rehman
My heart remains delicate. Trouble is, doubt always, always guards it. February was a tender month. A softness in the air. A kindness. A reciprocity of affection, respect. My heart remains delicate, too fragile to bear inconsistency, alas.
March was like wading through tar. The ego. The hardened cynic. The Master of None. A creeping malaise. March, the nemesis of the self. A battle. A war lost. A war endured. A forgiveness. A hunkering down.
April will be tears. Sighs of relief. Coffins six feet under. Weary boots. Fragments of what was. Children in the sun. April will be butter toast and the unfurling of Finally Summer. April will be mine. April will be ours.
May will be caramel and gifts. Humility and a softness in everyone’s eyes. Books and romance. Poetry and confessions. Stars and palm trees. May will be youth. Baby breath. Sandals and braids. May will be my heart on a string, bobbing away into a terrific blue sky.
June will be heartbreak. The good kind. This pomegranate of a heart of mine, neatly pried open. Chooridars and pazaib. Diary entries. Secrets and magic. The harvest. June will be an orange popsicle. Carefree and feral. June will be Monumental Joy.
July — I don’t know. Do we ever really know? The Not Knowing of the journey is so terrifically wonderful. Who knows which way the wind blows my friend..
