June First

by Jennifer Hartmann

She claimed me like the sunrise claims the morning sky with lightness and blush, promise and wonder. She claimed me like a cyclone funneling through a quiet town, taking no prisoners. She claimed my good and my bad, my light and my dark. She took my broken, ugly bits and molded them into something worthy of display. She turned my agony into art. June claimed me in a way that could ultimately be defined by a single word: Inevitable.

“The downside is, the more love you have, the harder it is to lose it.”

“You just need to be brave that first time, then all the other times come easy.”

“But I’ve also been there when everything burns down and you’re standing all alone amid the devastating ruin, when all that’s left is soot and kindling and billowing smoke. I’ve breathed in that smoke. I’ve choked on it. And I’m not saying your situation is the same… I’m not saying you’re destined for tragedy.” A smile blooms on his mouth, a little trace of empathy through the agony. “I’m just saying, friend to friend, that there are worse things than loving the wrong person.” I stare at him, waiting, my stomach twisting into knots. “And that’s losing them.”

“There are worse things than loving the wrong person. And that’s losing them.”

“There’s no right way, Peach, and there’s no wrong way. There’s only the way you choose and what you decide to make of that choice.”

“Anger is nothing but misplaced passion.”

“Passion is meaning, and it would be a hell of an empty life without it.”