What June left behind

June used to be my portal. While other months slip by quietly, June has its own way of announcing its return even before it leaves.

Before school calendars took on lives of their own, June meant the beginning of another academic year. Kids who had spent the entire summer playing beyond their usual hours couldn't wait to show off the many crayons they bought. For teens, it marked another season of choosing the coolest celebrity to grace a notebook cover or settling the infinite debate on what kind of notebook is best: bound, string, or spiral? For college students, June meant the resumption of school allowances that are admittedly best spent on nights out.

I vividly remember how my mom would get all excited whenever she mentioned June because of her mid-year bonus. Her face would light up as she promised that I would get a new pair of shoes. Her joy was contagious.

For the better part of my life, June was the perfect beginning to a new yet familiar adventure: a quiet reminder that Christmas is getting closer, and that another year is just over 200 days away. June wraps up the first two quarters as if it's a gift to the upcoming holidays, but still enough to make me wait and wonder what kind of present awaits in the remaining days.

As July settles in, I find myself lingering a little longer over the past month—not to relive it, but to gather the bits and parts it left. For so long, I thought the sixth month of the year had my six, until it turned its back on me.

Five years ago, on June 23, I lost my Mama Claring. I still remember burying myself in codals and books as I tried to honor the last promise I made to her the night prior: that it would be my last semester in law school.

As if to contrast life and death perfectly, my Papa Mulong blew out a birthday candle on June 26 to celebrate his 82nd year while Mama's remains lay in our home. It was his last birthday with Mama, but little did we know that it would also be his last birthday with us as well.

I had always thought fireworks were meant to be the loudest sounds of January. But when 2022 arrived, all I could hear were my own cries and pleas to the doctor, asking if they could keep my Lolo alive just long enough for me to finish the Bar examinations. My prayer was answered, but six more months were all we got.

I thought June simply turned its back on me; I did not expect it to stab me in the back, too. 

June was not yet done toying with my feelings. To compare the highs and lows with a roller coaster would hardly do justice to what happened to me. Then came what felt like a tentative apology, like an olive branch extended to me.

Exactly six months after my grandfather died on January 17, 2022, I signed the Roll of Attorneys on June 17, 2022. I know numerology is not an exact science, but dismissing these as mere coincidences is like overlooking June's quasi-sorry.

Still, I remain uncertain about how I feel about the month. For 25 years, we had some sort of solid connection and understanding—it brought me unforgettable joys and memories, ushering me through different life seasons. But in the last five years, it embedded in me an immeasurable pain, one I have come to accept I will never fully recover from. I don't intend to, anyway. That's what grief does.

For now, I find comfort in surrendering to the conflicting emotions of June. I no longer force it to bring me hues and colors like it used to. Neither do I question its decision to mix pain and grief at the same time, in equal measure.

Perhaps June has made me more guarded with its own tentativeness. I cannot allow it to continue swinging me like a pendulum.

But despite the confusion the month brings, it reminded me of one important truth: that my tears during the days of mourning dried up the same way the ink of my fountain pen did when I signed the Roll. Almost instantaneously. Definitely. Absolutely and with certainty.

Just like June, every season—no matter how sad or delightful—eventually comes to an end. Calendars were never meant to linger on a single page, and neither was I. Memories are not stored to hold us back from moving forward.

Now, I turn the page gently, carrying everything June gave and remembering everything it took away from me. I welcome July with open arms—not because it promises less pain, but because it asks nothing of me but to keep going.

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