May

It’s the second to last week of school and my children are so done with all of it. Morning has become a series of negotiations about getting on the bus. I should work in arbitration.

Summer’s imminence actually excites me, now that Jack has his summer day program, which we call “camp.” Mornings will be slightly less harried, with people potentially sleeping until 8:00 AM. It’s the definition of heaven.

Something about leafy green Cottonwoods outside my windows gets me pondering. May is lovely, fresh and full. When I was eighteen, I heard Gordon B. Hinckley speak at a devotional for young adults. It was May. He told us, “You are in the May of your lives. I am in the December of my life.”

That was twenty years ago. President Hinckley has been gone a long time. I suppose I am currently in my metaphorical July. Four kids live here now. I am filled up with growing, planting, nourishing, watering, caring. And long days.

July is when things flourish: plants, heat, insects, thunderstorms, daylight. It’s a hothouse month that produces.

It’s literally May but symbolically July.

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