Before I got in the cab for the airport, I said to Leo, “Keep our girls safe.”

He did his little you’re a total idiot laugh and said, “Of course I will, June. They’re my kids too.”

You only have to lose something once to feel like every other important thing in the world is in constant jeopardy. He should have known that. He should have put his arms around me and said he’d take care of everything. Instead he followed it up with, “This trip is a good idea. It will snap you out of this thing you’re going through. I think it’s exactly what you need.” He gave me a polite peck on the cheek, and I resisted the urge to punch him in the gut.

I’m not on this trip to snap myself out of anything. Nothing will ever snap me out of losing May. My sister was ripped from my life without warning, no old age, no long illness. One minute she was there and the next she wasn’t, and I had no say in it.

The plane bumps up and then drops suddenly, and the seat belt sign dings. We’re starting our descent. I shoot back the rest of the wine, endure the burn, knock my pretzels onto the floor, lock the tray into place, and put my seat-back in the upright position.

Avril Island. The name whispers through my mind, getting louder the closer I get. My nerves of nostalgia stand on end.

MAY

I was only two and a half when they brought June home from the hospital. I remembered it, though, all through my life—vivid and clear as though memory hadn’t started to matter until the day she arrived.

My mother took great efforts to settle me on the couch. She propped throw cushions on either side of my legs. She put a hand against my stomach and pushed me as deep into the couch as I would go.

Then she placed the tightly wrapped pink bundle into my arms, and I was surprised at how heavy she felt.

“This is your baby sister. This is June,” my mother said softly. She pointed to herself: “April.” Then to me: “May.” Then she pointed to the baby: “June.” She paused to let the understanding sink in. “The three of us are the best months of the year.” She chuckled, the warm, rich sound sending happiness surging through my belly.

I would come to understand much later the narcissism of our names. She was a month, and therefore the two of us must be as well—her month starting things off, our months following right behind.