Yesterday the tongues of strangers christened me with my full name over and over again as I wore tights that were too hot for the 80 degree weather and a dress that was too short to not wear tights. I baked in the sun that unabashedly washed through the car window as, like a missile tracking its target, we raced through the deserts of eastern Washington and exploded on Spokane in a roar of jubilant cheers as we watched my brother sway across the stage to claim his diploma. Yesterday I learned that I can be quite pretty, with green eyes and freckles and hair swirling like whirlpools, and I learned that I enjoy the sound of my name fumbling on new lips, lips of those that might become my in-laws one day soon.

Things are changing.
I don’t mind.

Moving on is bittersweet because it means that there was something there to begin with, something a little like honey that finally ran sour. Something that is only good for leaving behind in the dust. But it’s okay, because moving on is built in with the expectation that there is something to move on to, and summer seems to me an excellent time to seek out honey hiding in new woods.