When it’s June and I’m hot, and I sweat as soon as I leave the house, and I sigh during my evening jog because all my overweight parts are jiggling in the wet humidity, and I curse the fact that the low temperature for the day will be 82 degrees (sometime around 2am), and I wonder why I even bother to live in the South, I remember peaches and strawberries. Strawberries get ripe here in mid-Spring—I picked some in April last year—but the juiciest, most fragrant Georgia peaches only arrive in June. The happy convergence occurred today, after a mostly sleepless night of lonely worry and self-pity. I cut up a peach and three strawberries, scraped them into an elegant bowl, plopped vanilla Greek yogurt on it all, and, over some velvety French-pressed coffee, I allowed myself to breathe in the world without fear and to remind myself that life is worth savoring. The cat sat by my side, sun-warmed and purring. Eating and sipping, I remembered to try to attain her level of grace and ease in the world, at least for a moment. And, for that if nothing else, I’m grateful for June.
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