What is May supposed to be? Or love? Or memory?
I slouch toward it like one crawls toward Bethlehem.
The day you died is the anniversary of my first communion ---
you"d love that, I know.
Also the anniversary of the birth of my name-after grandmother,
and of another dearest friend whose name,
like yours, bears the messiah in its consonants.
What, then, is May supposed to be?
A jumble of it all:
the soaring joy-sprint of memory pedaling toward
the early sun as host in every sky, the likeness noted as
the priest holds up the bread looking every bit
like the moon against a sapphire night,
likewise the tug that brought me to the floor
when she told me you were gone.
May is dread that holds hands fast to gratitude.
I remember. I remember...
probably as close to everything as being human allows:
the first envelope's first words,
the nervous laughter of press of flesh in a bus station far away,
the quiet peace of dust particles dancing in a stream of light
hushing your frenzy or your fear,
smiles that brought ache to cheeks,
so much laughter, so much love,
so much reunion on so impossible a couch!
May is this:
You;
both breaking my heart
and opening it.
CM Carroll
