May is almost over. The posts have been few. The rain has stopped. The digging continues.

I live in a house. I sweep the floor several times a week. I put the trash and recycling out on Thursday evenings.

May is not known by any other names. It is only May. When it is May, thoughts turn to other things. Other things turn to wine and song. Eventually, a brawl breaks out. No one is seriously hurt, but the scene will never be the same.

May takes time. It offers a holiday, a beginning. A memorial to those failed attempts at starting something that would be finished by Labor Day. Labor takes time. Time is money. By August, we’re all spent.

If May would only come back, after October, we could appreciate it more. By the time May has passed, we were only vaguely aware of it being here. I am sorry, May.

I lived in California for three years without ever living there during the month of September. That is a different story.

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