My dearest darling July,
The six months since I last tasted your sweet caress have felt like an eternity and I faint at the thought of waiting another five and a half months until we can be together again. My only bright spot is knowing you will never need to suffer the ravages of winter as I now do, waiting for your return.
December tries to entice me with promises of warm cheer and twinkling lights—a clever and effective distraction, I’ll admit. But we all know what lies ahead even as we sing the carols and exchange the gifts. Besides, the desert land to which the Christ child arrived would be far more in keeping with a July celebration. I take comfort in knowing at least you are spared the indignities of the blatant Christmas commercialism.
In January, time mysteriously slows. January is merely something to be survived, except no grand prize awaits those who do—only the promise of another two or three months of winter. You, my dear, will never be able to fathom the unspeakable temperatures endured here. Last week my shadow froze to the sidewalk where it will stay until I can retrieve it in the spring.
And it’s not just the cold. This month is also famous for its viruses, and half the world is down with some bug or other. You would not believe what these beastly little creatures do to the human body. The coughing, the sneezing, the moaning, the shivering, the sweating, the campouts in the bathroom! Your hair hurts, your teeth itch. Your eyeballs feel like two billiard balls lodged in your eye sockets and you beg people to just shoot you. At workplaces everywhere, employees drag themselves into work in order to tag-team with equally sick coworkers dragging themselves out. Only, they don’t actually touch hands because A) they don’t want the germs to recirculate and B) they are too weak to raise their arms high enough.
February tries to distract with the false hope of love and romance, but the result falls short. You and I both know a bit of chocolate or a pretty flower are poor substitutes for our annual 31-day courtship in the sun with gentle breezes, lush gardens, and long hours of daylight.
Those who can afford it cope by escaping to places that most resemble you, like Mexico or Jamaica or Florida. Others try to “embrace” winter with hockey, snow-mobiling, curling, and the like. We all know winter sports are a form of denial. As for me, I lose myself in books and wish you were here to enjoy them with me. The stories rarely take place in winter.
And don’t get me started on March. March has one colour: greige. It’s a watered-down combination of grey and beige and everything from the sky to the streets and everything in between is painted with the same depressing stroke. It’s enough to give you a stroke.
And so, precious July, I send my love and assurance that I miss you with all my heart. Your closest companions, June and August, are also my dear friends. But it’s your brightness, your warmth, your fireworks, that I long for. Take care, my beloved July, until we meet again—wherever you are.
All my love,Terrie