June's Jumble of Sentences

Welcome to June’s sentences. This edition marks one year of this project where I write one sentence per day. I don’t plan to stop anytime soon. Thanks so much for reading, and please let me know what you think.

06.01.25: The boy heard the toddler squeaking from her crib on the morning of her second birthday and reported that the “sweet girl is already awake.”

06.02.25: Three moments to file away from this early summer afternoon: the smell of rain on willow, an osprey winging through grey clouds, and the boy reaching across the backseat to find his sister’s hand.

06.03.25: By the time we stash our bikes at the preschool, I’ve been charged with multiple torts, all related to not properly acting out my roles in the boy’s Hot Wheels simulation.

06.04.25: The toddler pulls me outside where we walk, her hand encircled around my finger, on the sidewalk still slightly dimpled by rain.

06.05.25: The hound, wet with rain from a morning walk, curls into a tight ball on the office couch.

06.06.25: A casual gym conversation reveals that the last baby my dad held is now 13, and his parents are wrestling the decision about whether to gift him a phone.

06.07.25: The irises and larskspur in the alpine meadow duel it out for the best shade of dusty purple.

06.08.25: I wipe icecream off my leg from the toddler’s dripping cone and check for news of ICE raids.

06.09.25: The toddler and I pass a piece of leftover pizza back and forth, both transfixed by the glistening spray of the neighbors’ sprinkler in the evening sun.

06.10.25: A “marmot xing” sign catches the boy’s eye and prompts a discussion about the rodent’s relative fierceness.

06.11.25: The stuffed dragon that was given to the toddler for her birthday lives now in the boy’s bed and peers over him as the final light darkens behind his curtains.

06.12.25: My alarm clock hoists himself under the linen sheets, dawn hitting the armful of books he desires to read.

06.13.25: The adults endeavored to remind the boy which foot of his new friend is broken, and when he kept confusing right from left, we decided it was best to just instruct him to avoid stepping on either of his friend’s feet.

06.14.25: The toddler ensnared a pretzel on one finger and clutched a cardboard sign in the other hand.

06.15.25: The algorithm knows too much, but it has yet to learn that I am not shopping for my dad on this Father’s Day.

06.16.25: I am like the bird flying over the crunchy fields and catching a whiff of irrigation water on the hot breeze.

06.17.25: I sight the toddler’s bunny—striped blue like the one in Goodnight Moon—in her empty car seat on a night away for work.

06.18.25: A snarl of traffic snakes along the river, rerouted to avoid a brush fire, and the passenger of the silver GMC Sierra in front of me jumps out and opens the rear door to urinate.

06.19.25: The heat was no match for the river’s splash of cold snowmelt, and a thumb extended quickly yielded a ride from a father and son headed to bible camp.

06.20.25: The Solstice wind rattles the drooping balloons affixed to headstones.

06.21.25: More bombs from our country, more reposts on social media decrying the rot, and two red poppies stand, sentinels in the shade, as I ride my bike on a quiet county road.

06.22.25: The boy counts down to zero to nudge me to submerge in the eddy as the cliff swallows land under the bridge and echo his encouragement in squeaks.

06.23.25: The email subject line reads “ping,” and its arrival dings in my head, and I catelogue the summer sounds I’d rather hear: oar in water, the boy’s breath heading toward sleep, the crack of a beer can, bird call, trowel thrust into clay soil.

06.24.25: They boy exploded from his room to announce that there are ten days left in June (his math is a bit off) but I can feel time streaming past me in his harried breath.

06.25.25: The sparrows flit in and out of the light and dark shadows cast by the billow of a thundercloud.

06.26.25: A few strands of Lyle Lovett spill out of the coffee shop, as I crawl back into the front seat and rest my hand on the pup’s wet paw, dampened by the early morning ditch dip.

06.27.25: I dodge Modelo cans and cigarette butts on the way to the river for an afternoon plunge.

06.28.25: The toddler jettisoned her shoes when we arrived at the hanging alpine lake and led me through the marshy tundra dotted with blooms.

06.29.25: The toddler impatiently plunged her finger into the pavlova as the couple—40 years married—took a shuffle to Marvin Gaye and June’s first real rain drops splattered the patio.

06.30.25: The boy’s first encounter with “ducky” tape yielded an earnest appreciation for its strength.