August or How to not lose it on the day the universe decides to pick a bone with you
a lyrical essay written for Sustenance as part of our August challenge
August has been quite the month so far. I had high hopes for it, truly. In the past, August meant long, lazy days of relentless sun spent at the beach, diving in and out of turquoise waters, clear enough I could see the bottom of the sea (provided I was wearing glasses, of course) and everything else between that bottom and myself: little fish offering free peelings of dead skin cells, sea urchins chilling, rocks covered in seaweed, my body facing upwards being swept by a nonchalant current, eyes closed against the fireball in the sky, ears buzzing with the sea’s ancient song.
August was the month of quiet afternoons, red skin pulsating with the heat of the day like I’d stolen a piece of the sun and carried it home with me, cicadas screaming their heads off at all hours of the day. It meant the best watermelon, ice-cold from the fridge cut in big smiley pieces ready to be devoured, it meant figs dripping syrupy bliss, it meant peaches so sweet you’d swear someone had dipped them in sugar.
August meant nights spent outside, always outside, with family, with friends, laughing, drinking beer, walking across the coast, the city vibrating with life from all sides, children playing in town squares until late at night, music echoing from corners you didn’t know exist, it meant sharing delicious meals at taverns where no one ordered just for themselves: everything was placed in the middle, everything for everyone to try and to enjoy.
August meant bidding my winter self the most luscious, indulgent, carnal goodbye, shedding the skin of the past year ready to welcome the new one.
August was a poem written in life moments, ones I gathered like treasure.
This August however… Let’s just say it hasn’t even come close. Apart from the birthdays of my husband and son, August has been quite the letdown. An especially bad day inspired the following lyrical essay I wrote for my online writing community, Sustenance.
Because sometimes August is a narcissistic prick, hellbent on not letting you enjoy any part of life, just because it’s miserable and unhappy and wants everyone else to be unhappy, too.
How to not lose it on the day the universe decides to pick a bone with you
Spoiler alert: you will. Don't fight it. Let the anger wash over you like the tidal wave it is. Let it take with it all the words, all the tears, all the fuck-yous you can scream. Stand at the center of the vortex of annihilation and lift your middle finger to the void. Laugh uncontrollably while doing so.
When the storm passes, sit. Let the wind re-enter your lungs. Feel the air sacks fill with oxygen, revel in the fact they are still working. You are still working. The body is a miracle. It remembers how it works, even when you don't. Trust it.
Sit and marvel at the destruction laying at your feet. You might wince at first glance, but wait and see: there is beauty in the undone. There is the promise of tomorrow. Untethered from what was, what will be, shall emerge. Pick a shovel and a bag. Start sweeping in the broken. Bind tight. Get another bag. Repeat.
When the sky clears and there is a speck of light on the horizon-not a sun, more like an upturned moon in desperate need of directions (the moon must be a man)-remind yourself: the universe might have started the war, but you can choose to end it.
Be the bigger person. Let the anger wash over you like a tidal wave. Let it take your body with it. Watch how you float. Belly up. Looking at the stars.
Sometimes all you can do is drink a glass of red wine at twelve at night. Wolve down a bag of chips (barely breathing in-between indulgent, crunchy bites). Listen to your son's breathing as you write. Know there is only one person you have to live with, for the rest of your life: You. Love her. Even when she's angry. Even when she's not. Teach the universe a lesson.