Month By Month

June

6/1/00

Dear Peaks of Distant Snow,

You glimmer brightly on the horizon under the sun's yellow-white rays—yellow-white, and sharp. I only have a shade hat to dispel the cutting light, so I think I may wait out the remainder of this month in the shelter of dark green trees. The leafless forest has filled in fully at last.

The plants and earth, still soaked with May's thunders, glisten and crinkle under the cool palms of the air. The pond is amber, currently. The stones under the water remind me of the pennies I used to throw into fountains back home.

I think of home a lot now, but never for too long at a time. It's all just distant memories with no real emotion latched on. Remembering my life before these mountains is like looking through a stained-glass window. It's not unpleasant to recall, but it's different—warped.

I try not to think of the people I left. They're okay. It's not like I didn't warn them. And if I hadn't, they should have sensed my discomfort many blue months in advance.

Sometimes I wish there was a postal service here, just so I could send a card or two.

June, the month when I would steep in shade.