The next morning—June twenty-first, the solstice—Eloise woke to find a glass of lemonade on her nightstand. Beside it, a sticky note in her grandmother’s neat hand:
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.” is june spring or summer
“It’s summer, El. Close the door. You’re letting the cold out.” June pretends to be summer—the long days, the
Margaret snorted. “That’s not an answer.” You don’t trust the warmth yet
That night, Eloise lay in bed with the window open. The air smelled like cut grass and something sweeter—mock orange, maybe. A cricket sawed its legs together in a rhythm that wasn’t quite the frantic pulse of August. It was slower, more tentative. Spring’s last instrument testing a summer tune.
Eloise didn’t close it. She turned, squinting. “It’s June twentieth. That’s still spring.”
Eloise frowned. She liked her father’s metaphors, but they didn’t settle the score. “So is it spring or summer?”