I fear August. I fear the slyness and swiftness with which it moves. I fear the beautiful ring of its name: ancient, robust, wise. And I fear the force with which it departs.
I feel rattled. Unsteady. Restless.
My breaths are short and hurried.
My belly quivers.
I lost both of my children in the month of August. In the last few days of it. Oh, how August beguilingly started in the past two years! I hadn’t been prepared for its craftiness, not in either the first or second year. My babies and I glided into August fluidly, the seams of the hours undetectable. One day slid into the next, laughter and frivolity occupying the seconds, until August decided to take a turn. It angrily erupted. Why? It threw a tantrum. And it slammed the door on its way out.
I know that August does not hold power. God doesn’t punish, though — I am confident of this. So why, then, did Daffy and Kiri die? No one stands guard against August. And, thus, spoiled August stuns and rages. I can’t catch my breath.
I would like my babies back. I would like to plant my feet on the ground and not feel dizzy from the earth spinning. I would like August to revert back to my childhood August, when it was just a summer month that commenced with long days and ended with escorting me to the school bus. The door groans and slowly shuts behind me, and I find my assigned seat near a filmy window. The morning light strikes my face. My homework is in my backpack, and I know my spelling words.
Fireflies and Daffodils 