july, she will fly.

i'll remember the simple, unfettered joy of spinning french jazz or reading a paperback over the hum of the fan. watermelon juice ribboning down a bare and rounded toddler belly. how, when i showed him van gogh's cypresses, all he could see was the moon. tomato sandwiches. pitchers full of wildflowers. django and cat, ever faithful companions. painting in the bathtub. the neighbor's blush hydrangeas, how they carried me places. sharing smoothies by the window after naps. to the lighthouse, read aloud since he breathed through my body, finished. the windows tossed open, puccini playing during thunderstorms.