May Flies

Last weekend, Thomas and I visited my sister and brother-in-law at their New Hampshire home. After the week I had, particularly with the sudden arrival of my period, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to drive up north. Periods nowadays are brutal and my rollercoasting hormones make both the bloodshed and my moods horrifically erratic. Thomas was already well aware of this prior to our trip and was worried about me. I had let him know on a particularly bad Tuesday morning that all things were catching up and causing a mini meltdown. He talked me through all that and the day ended up being just fine. Yes, he is a great boyfriend. And, yes, he too noted that this meltdown was about 4 weeks after the previous meltdown I had had. Pesky estrogen and progesterone. Sometimes it’s just not fair to be a woman.

Heading up north turned out to be exactly what the doctor had ordered; being greeted by two of the best hosts this side of the Mississippi made it all the more worthwhile. Jan and Dave sure do know how to make guests feel welcomed, fed, hydrated, and rested. As Thomas played his guitar outside, I looked up at the mayflies of the Saco River darting back and forth just below the tree line. What must it be like to go through your entire adulthood in just one day? One of these ephemeral insects landed right on Thomas’ guitar and hung out for a while, seeming to listen as he played. “Shouldn’t you be mating or something?” Thomas finally said, brushing him/her off of the blonde wood. Maybe was one of the cool flies and really just wanted to listen to some tunes in his final moments of life. If so, that would probably be the mayfly I’d hang out with if I, too, were a mayfly.

Suddenly, it’s June. The school year is winding down, the lilacs are browning, the Rhododendrons have bloomed, and the Black Locust trees are blowing their white petals down like snow onto the sides of roads. The first of my best friends’ children graduated on Friday and it shook me more than I anticipated. We held him when he was born and I remember we were all a little stupefied, shocked that any one of us were capable of bringing life into the world. This particular bestie was the one who took her parents’ van out for a joy ride when she was a freshman in high school and here she was, a Mom. “I am so not ready for this.” I thought as Jill served us monkey bread while we took turns holding Braden.“Well shit.” Meg said, when she saw Braden’s graduation picture pop up on our text thread, followed by “Congrats Mama. You did it and it was not easy. Time to fly baby.”

As children graduate with their lives full of promise ahead, Dad walked out of the bathroom today wearing his sweater and absolutely nothing else. “That’s a new one.” Mom said oh so nonchalantly. The walls here witness so much from dawn until dusk; I often forget to breathe, relax my shoulders, and laugh at the absurdity of it all. I have learned to stop and exhale A LOT. If you have heard me sigh, I am not surprised. It has been a tough road these past few years for ALL of us. For me, I am forever vacillating between worry and radical acceptance, fear and excitement. When I look at my friend’s son, diploma in hand, I see the fiery spark of a new beginning and eagerly anticipate all the good this rising generation will do. When I look at my Dad today, though his eyes have grown cloudy, I still see the very same spark captured in the picture of he and Mom when they first started dating. Per usual, I end my week perseverating on the one aspect of nature that has jumped out at me—those dang mayflies of the Saco. They spring into and out of life in an instant, accepting that frenzied tango without question. Though we humans have evolved over the millennia to be far more complicated a species, those little buggers have been going at it since before the dinosaurs. Who does life better: the bug that lives solely to procreate and die or we humans who are all seemingly born with anxiety disorders? Maybe there’s something to learn from these winged creatures of spring. “Don’t hesitate.” Mary Oliver once wrote, “ Joy is not made to be a crumb.” May has flown past us now. What, then, will we do with all the joy that remains?

Evergreen & Grey is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.