July was fantastical. I was always struck speechless when she smiled.  Her loose limbs used to flail in mid-air as she danced in circles around me. She’d do this routine – a spin once, twice, and then a graceful fall to the floor; knees pressed against the earth. The breeze would start to change as she fell, the scent of grass, rain and sunlight wafting through the air. It smelt of home, the forest. July, she was breath-taking. The calendar said we had 31 days left every year and I think that’s what made her so different. That she knew she wouldn’t last past the summer and live to see autumn. Sometimes I still hear her laughter as an echo in the place I hold so dear.

-

When December comes visiting, she tells me July was only a dream.

“But you have 31 days too.” I argue.

“Time is always longer in the cold,” December replies. “It makes summer seem like it never existed.”

I always laugh when she says this because I know the truth – every end is merely a new beginning.

(A.H.Z)