I’m always sad to see July go. It’s the American girl in me. All the big dreams are dreamt in summer. The light is bright and lasts forever. You can watch three movies in a row, if you want to, and the sun still hasn’t set. Then you can have ice cream with your sweetheart, and not care if it’s dripping all over because it’s hot even at night, and summer’s when cares melt away. And you talk about all your favorite movie scenes, the rapturous moments of love, laughter, and awe. (This gets a bit frenzied, because there’s so much to talk about, and you can only talk so fast and get so excited before, deep breath, you can go on.)
And July has its still moments.
For all its gaiety, July is wistful, too. But I’m one of those strange birds who finds a touch of melancholy sweetens the brew. You can’t hold on to July, nor do you want to. The pink of its wonder is in its impermanence.
‘Till next time.