3 a.m.

When I think of October, I think of us.

When I think of November, I think of Arabella.

When I think of December, I think of a pale moon spilled milk glass over the countryside where every breath in stings my lungs.

When I think of January, I think that I never want winter to be over.

When I think of February, I think of getting older.

When I think of March, I think about how fast the year might go by.

When I think of April, I think of how the land shakes off the last remnants of snow to let new buds wake in warm sunlight.

When I think of May, I think of lilacs.

When I think of June, I think of how much I want it to be summer. And your birthday.

When I think of July, I think of my cousin and fireworks, staying up all night and eating Dominos.

When I think of August, I think of cicadas.

When I think of September, I think of how much I want the grossly hot summer to be over.

Leaving home has made me so terribly aware of all that I miss.

I knew it would, but I guess maybe I wasn’t quite ready for the punch of it.