Day 153

If a June night could talk, it would probably boast that it invented romance. bern williams

 

For the first many years of my tender life the word “Romance” (capital R) and the color red were mutually exclusive. The word sparked an immediate reaction in my mind that had me picturing the shoebox from third grade. Clumsily decorated with crimson shades of construction paper and glitter dumped excessively over squiggles of Elmer’s glue, this box sat proudly in the center of every student’s desk and held with reverence the only true symbol of Romance: Valentines (capital V). 

Romance meant hearts and lace and bows and little candies that could double as Tums in an emergency. Romance was the Hallmark store next door to Trader Joe’s and Frazee Paint.

Now, I am grown and it has been a great many years since my last Valentine and Romance is no longer a commercial experiment in crafts.

No, Romance is a warm summer night in June. Romance is fireflies at dusk and the sweet smell of grass on the air that rustles through oak trees and sagebrush. Romance is wildflowers and bursts of rain in the middle of the afternoon and the rush of breath in that moment right before a first kiss.

June snuck up on me again this year. I hope it stays awhile. If I could I would take June by the hand and we would lay beneath the stars until they burned out, and only then could I welcome sunny days by the water with July.

Friend, I've missed June. I've missed nights spent with the windows open listening as the crickets serenade the world away to dreams. 

I've missed June. But I've missed Romance more.