Everywhere, pink and lavender and orange and white blossoms are bursting into bloom, and I love it, though I know it won't last. The transitory nature of it all is likely why my eyes linger on every flower, every rush of color on the branch and the vine, in a desperate, nostalgic way, because even though all of that color and beauty seems so fresh and so immediate and so present, it starts to fade the moment that it appears.
The way that time moves shifts suddenly in May, each day tumbling forward and colliding with others in a succession of days that merge and press onward to the end of the school year. The simplest routines can't hold up to the pressure: the students squirm in their seats, the teachers scramble to satisfy the last of the standards. Everyone is excited. Everyone is exhausted. Everyone is ecstatic that it is May. Everyone needs it not to be May any longer.
This is exactly why I am finding it so difficult to answer simple questions like, "How was your day?" or, "How's it going?" My face offers the most accurate reply: my eyebrows jump up an inch, my eyes widen and roll, and a not-so-sane laugh emerges from my mouth. These days don't exactly translate well to speech.
Still, I'm making an effort.
Working with symbols and writing in fragments makes it a little easier to offer up a snapshot of a typical day in May.
It's honest. It's real. It's me, at the moment -- which is already quickly receding.