How to Become Friends with the Months of the Year
With January, only honesty is ensured. Come as you are; if you donât, they will rip away everything you arenât. Their embrace is cold, but they can only take so much warmth from you before the two of you are one and the same. It is a relief like nothing else. Donât get hung up on it when they leave.
February says very little, so hold onto the words she does say. Write them down, save them. She is fascinated by the things you do, the things you never notice. When you feel her hold your hand, pause and breathe until sheâs gone. Sheâs gone so quickly. You miss January. Stop missing January.
March is not quick to make friends. Try as you might, as the weeks pass on, you will not find him if you look. He will find you, and he will approach so quietly, youâll hardly hear him. He has one word to tell you, one very important word, and you probably wonât like it. But donât tell that to his face, assuming you ever see it. He is damageable just like you.
April wants to take you far away from winter. She grabs you right by the wrist and pulls you into her bright and buzzing world. Itâs exhilarating just to be with her. She guides you along, she speaks the rhythm, the chain of command. Itâs a dance designed for forgetting the stillness of winter. Join her. You wonât forget.
May tries harder than anyone else has to make you forget. They offer you all manner of wines and sweets and each one is better than the last. Youâre satiated for the first time that you can recall. Everything is beautiful. All your needs are met. You miss the feeling of needing something. Drink as much wine as you want, but it wonât go away.
June gets it. June keeps telling you he gets it. Juneâs air is frantic with the pull of summer. It swarms your head. You miss January. Stop missing January. God, you miss January. January took a piece of you and now June is hurriedly rearranging all your other pieces in an attempt to fill you back in. Tell him to stop before you become unrecognizable. When he leaves, you will have no idea how to put yourself back.
July carries you across the shore. Youâre bleeding; from the empty spaces time has left in you some kind of blood is falling. July holds you, as you hover over sleep. He knows not where he is going; August calls from no one place and he drifts out to meet her. You see the many places time has reached. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blurs of places it hasnât. Let your eyes close for a while. You need to rest.
August keeps your eyes locked with hers. You wander in some sort of fog, the heat pulling you away from the ground in waves that twist your vision. You see August. Everywhere you look, you see her. Every sound, every smell, every good and warm feeling becomes August. January exists only as a pang of guilt in your stomach. You are hopelessly Augustâs. Donât fight it. Not that you would.
September holds your arm with an unspoken ferocity before August can walk away with you into times unknown. It is not cold, but you shiver. Nothing fits in your field of vision. But they take good care of you. Wonderful care. Youâd much rather fall in love with September. You canât seem to make it happen. Donât give up. Donât give up. Donât give up.
Your eyes blink and October has taken their place. Youâre ready, he says. He takes you by the hand and brings you back homeâexcept this isnât home. It is where you have lived all your life but it isnât home anymore. October lets you crash at his place and tells good jokes. It all bounces right off the surface, maybe making an entertaining ripple but nothing more. It starts to get cold again. Your thoughts run away from you. October doesnât know how to fix this. Neither do you. Donât give up.
November watches you closely. She doesnât say much. She knows what lies ahead and doesnât want to tell you. You see indifference in her. She wants only to let you heal. You fall inside yourself. Your stomach feels like itâs shattered, and you donât know how to fix it, only how to watch it fall apart. You feel like a turbulent mess and the world around you is only getting slower. You miss January. You miss January so bad you could hurt something. The shattered pieces inside you are sharp. Take one, hold it in your shaking hands. Look kindly at November. Watch how she says nothing, out of fear.
December canât do anything for you. Time has frozen, January is an eternity away, and December canât be January no matter how hard they try. They canât heal you; their touch is too coarse. They canât fix you; youâre missing the most important piece. They canât take you back to January; January is far in the past and the future has dropped off like a cliff. But they can see what you have been through. And they can feel the pain of the frostbite setting in. And they can hold you, closer and closer every second, as tears of their own hit your flesh like ice, and you grow colder and colder, and colder still, pulling you further and darker down, until deep down you two are one and the same.
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