In June so many lives have folded and unfolded inside me—once on the last day of the month—I heard I was carrying twins, in the doctor’s words I was, “Very, very pregnant,” until then, I did not know a woman could be more or

Less pregnant—I though you either were or were not—but then, so much of Life is other than I thought—I did not know that “until death do us part” Would not be a part of my story—in June, the rhododendrons bloom—Pink

And purple extravaganzas exploding everywhere—my father would take me To see the largest bank near our house and we would admire them Together—then I thought he was fussing over nothing—now I understand

The apparent glory in June, in those early days of spring, when we wish for Everything—another spring has come and that spring, inherently leads us To think of what has begun and also what has come undone—what has

Been woven and what has been untied—as all our lives coincide—in June I Had a strange metallic taste in my mouth during the early days of my Pregnancy—all I wanted to drink was tomato juice, small cans of it lined

The kitchen counter; I couldn’t bare to see naked chicken breasts, or even Catch a whiff of pizza baking—in June, we always celebrated my father’s Birthday, once in London with a store-boughten cake, as he would have

Dubbed it—another time he faked gladness in the muddle I had baked with No liquids because I was too stubborn to ask for help with the recipe—in June the rhododendrons bloom—in June, my father died—on the twelfth

Day of the sixth month of the year, confirming my mother’s superstition That people often die near their births—my grandmother used to call the Twelfth of June a bad luck day, her own wedding day—her husband had

Died young, just before his own thirtieth birthday—in June, we buried my Father’s ashes—I let the soft flakes pass through my hands as I tried to Make myself understand he was no longer here—in June, he would say, in

June the rhododendrons will bloom—and there was comfort in his saying Those words, comfort in knowing he was still here, comfort in Remembering how he would stand and gesture at the beauty—in June I

Finally got to say him he was going to be a grandfather—in June I told him That, if I had a son, he would be named for him—his smile was worth Everything to me—in June, on the last night he was conscious—I sat with

Him and watched the sun set over the Charles River through his hospital Room—in June, he told me I would be alright, even as he said those words I Knew he would not make it through the night—in June, we gathered his

Ashes together and buried him beneath the Chinese dogwood that was in Full bloom, the kind of tree he loved—that June, it was still a sapling—now It is full grown, almost overgrown, shading the earth where he is buried.

In June beginnings and endings come to pass as we each remember again How it feels to be so alive after all those months of dormancy—in June, we Begin—in June the petunias bloom and we smell the sweet lilies,

We whisper in prayer beauty after darkness, the promise of life after death.