August and September
I wish I could have told myself:
you'll marry someone born in September.
When it was August in college
and there was a three week stretch
of ninety plus degree days
before the new school year
and my pajamas were stained
with boys making mistakes
and sweat that kept coming
like the tears that tattooed my face
because it was endless, and the feelings
were permanent, a reminder of what had been
and what would become my illness.
I wish I could have told myself:
you'll be a writer.
In August
when I was presented
with addiction
someone forcing themselves
to be their own demon
and I had to be saved
by someone who later
decided not to survive
the mundane of the every day
or any day.
August smells like her
the perfume in her apartment
the summer she saved my life.
August smells like the rain
evaporating off the sidewalks
in New England
after a thunderstorm
the humidity too much
to contain any of us.
I don't tell people she saved me.
That in August, we went for drives
in my Prius
and sang songs that I still listen to
though sometimes they hurt.
That when I was faced with issues
at home,
she said I could stay with her.
That there are ways
to be free of those
who would hurt us.
She died in August of
the next calendar year,
and I remember calling my parents.
September came and it was
still stagnant with death.
But there's something
to the notion
of rebirth.
I knew her face
in all my ambitions, dreams,
the sun setting earlier
than it had before.
In September
it was okay to not be okay
and for that I thank her.