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.