The souvenir cowbells in my trashcan rattle every time I hopscotch across my floor to get to my bed or my closet or my bathroom. They are marketing tools from an event I volunteered at in April. I grabbed two because my friend didn’t want hers – “They’re just going to end up being something else I have to throw away,” she said. I knew she was right, but I pretended like I had space.
Now, my desk is covered in lesson plans and notes crisscrossing from 2008 to 2012. I’ve packed them in boxes labeled with KEEP because they’re worth something, whereas the cowbells are worth nothing. I can’t keep the cowbells. There’s no space or point to them. When has anyone ever needed less cowbell? When did I rewrite that script?
The soles of my shoes are covered in berries that the overzealous sun has forced to ripen before their time. I want to remind them that it’s still May, that for everything there is a season –to ripen, to rot, to start all over. But, even nature has rewritten her script, so I shrug and learn to trust the process.
Seasons don’t fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain