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
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