Writing by Savannah Alvarado // Photograph by Mabel Windred-Wornes
Writing by Savannah Alvarado // Photograph by Mabel Windred-Wornes
i.
January is passed marrying age and her sister December judges her harshly for this
Says she is running out of time
But January is happy
Yes, sometimes she looks back
But then she looks ahead, and she keeps moving
She sees the wild streak in her niece October and cultivates it like strawberries in the summer
Teaches October how to carve, how to tell if something is cooked all the way through, and how to tell the boys no without feeling guilty
January teaches October that she does not owe anyone anything
And October does not forget this
ii.
May’s father, March, likes to have fun, likes to drink, likes to wear those shiny beads around his neck
May’s mother, April, deals with this
She has a crooked smile and a large capacity for pain
Cries a lot and her hands shake, but she never touches the bottle except to smash his empty ones in the backyard
She goes on picnics often, lies in open fields
April speaks so softly to the flowers, in a language that would make anyone feel safe enough to open up
Does her best to raise her daughter, May, with a good heart
She teachers her how to grow things from a seed, how to let love bloom in its own time
iii.
June is the definition of an optimist
Curly hair and big sunshine eyes
Despite the showers that sometimes caress her cheeks, she sees the world and still believes she can have it
Spends all her days in the sun, and doesn’t mind the heat
June has not met July, and she never will
June will be off somewhere, dancing, long before July arrives at the party
iv.
When he does arrive, it will be without his lover, August
This is because August hates the way July looks at her during parties
Like a bottle that won’t open, with a cap too strong to use your hands on
No one really knows who July is, or where he came from
They only know the color of his eyes when they’re reflecting the light in someone else’s
He is the life of the party
The party with the bottles and the bodies
The party where no one has to know your name
Everyone loves July, at least in theory, and August is no exception
But July cracks his knuckles on August’s jaw
Tells her, “There won’t be a beginning of you unless it’s the end of me.”
v.
When all of them want him dead, July eventually goes on the run to evade the law, or his fears, or his father
For once in his mixed up life, he does a good thing
He kisses August’s forehead and then he leaves her behind
He listens to her playlist in his car as he drives away
He does not return
When August wakes with yellowing bruises and no one chained to her side, she feels an emptiness in her chest
But she does not shed a tear
She has never before believed in capital G God, but she thanks him
And then, she locks the doors
Shortly after this is when I meet her
Half healed and half of her heart hardened
vi.
August takes up too much space in the bed, leaves me to hang my limbs over the edge
August sleeps too close, heat emitting from her soft skin
The fan does not help, sleeping without a comforter is impossible
I do not sleep, but I do not tell her
August’s heart beats too hard, I feel it like an earthquake when I am lying on the fault line of our bed
I ask August what she wants for breakfast and she can barely open her eyes
She has not washed her hair in days and when I ask her why, she says she has been busy with her schoolwork
But I have not seen August do any schoolwork
All she has done is walk around the house like she has forgotten what she came here for, and cry
August has done a lot of crying
I try to comfort her but there is nothing I can do
She says this is the peak of hurricane season and somehow she is never in the eye of the storm, just swept up in its arms
I sweep her into my arms and, again, it does no good
vii.
August leaves me Tylenol on the nightstand when she leaves the house before I wake
She knows the heat makes my head hurt, and so does waking up without her
viii.
August uses her teeth to open things
I think it is something she learned from July
I worry it is going to damage her smile
I worry one day my blood will stain her teeth
Maybe this is why I sometimes get so scared when she asks me to open up
But then I look at her hands, her soft palms
It is then that I remember we are both survivors, but that does not mean we are both made of bone and scar tissue alone
ix.
September is the big sister I needed as a child
She teaches me how to tie proper bandages and start fires
She says I can use the bandages as tinder once the wounds have healed
September tells me to let the wounds heal
Takes me to the mountainside in the chilly afternoon, reaches the edge, and holds out her arms
“This, this is what is ours” she tells me with pride
I watch her inhale the world and I try to do the same
She smiles when she sees me trying to stretch my lungs in the same way she has learned how to
x.
Sometimes February goes weeks without calling
But no one ever worries
When he does call, he says he has been in the mountains looking for peace
On the beach, soaking up vitamin D (because the doctor said he is lacking)
At auntie’s house, teaching June some new dances
He is always teaching us the meaning of elasticity
Teaching us how to return to the same place, no matter how far life stretches us
xi.
November sees the bands he likes breaking up and the people he loves dying
He knows this is part of the process
But it hurts no matter what he knows
It hurts looking at boxes of ashes in backyards
It hurts having things crumble before you can let them go
It is in this way that life gets caught beneath your fingernails, in the crevices of your lungs, on the inside of your teeth
This is how you lose your ability to let go
