Margaret snorted. “That’s not an answer.”
Margaret’s needles clicked in disbelief. “June is June. June is roses and fireflies and the last day of school. That’s summer.” is june spring or summer
Eloise didn’t close it. She turned, squinting. “It’s June twentieth. That’s still spring.” Margaret snorted
Summer. But you were right about the solstice. June is roses and fireflies and the last day of school
She thought about the word “June.” It didn’t feel like April’s wet mud or July’s cracked earth. June was the month of graduations and weddings, of strawberries that still tasted like a surprise. It was the month you stood in the doorway of the year, one foot in each season, deciding whether to go back for a jacket or leave it behind forever.
Tom pulled out an ear of corn. “Think about it. June pretends to be summer—the long days, the heat, the peonies. But June still has spring’s anxiety. The first week of June, you’re still jumpy about a late frost. You don’t trust the warmth yet. July never worries. July is pure, stupid summer. June is the dress rehearsal.”