PEACH PITS IN THE GRASS

I need April like I need a dog. No, scratch that. I need April like a full bladder on public transportation during rush hour. Like my life depends on it. I’m starting to think it does. Last April I fell in love again after having declared the entire concept counterfeit and I wore dresses with pink flowers to match the ones budding wildly outside my room. I don’t think I shed a tear the entire spring. There’s no reason to weep in a world that intoxicating. Last April I thought of life as “a great poem”— like, how disgustingly pure can you be?— and I walked around with words in my mouth, beautiful lines to chew on, delicious morsels. April meant skies so blue you could easily mistake them for water and inadvertently drown, sidewalks chalked over with pastel love letters addressed to no one in particular, just whoever happened to walk the path by fortuitous accident. It is okay to be lonely in April. You could make friends with those warm-blooded evenings, faint carousel music, peach pits in the grass. You could worship the mud-stained heels of your calloused feet, the long lost color returning to your cheeks, the flight of birds making their long voyage back home. April is an easy world, a paperback, front porch, twilight world. A dizzy world, heart-pounding world, first-ever kiss on the forehead world. Everyone glows like a kid again, sugar-high on purple afternoons, nectar sweet and liquid smooth down the throat. I need April like I need a reason to fight. Like it’s the last day of the longest March my life has ever known and I don’t think a single day passed where I didn’t cry. I need April like I’m forgetting the feeling of occupying a world that wanted me happy. A world where I wore dresses and believed in miracles and lived that great poem, like my life depended on it. Because it so does. I know that now.

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