You Offer July a Coffee

But she prefers iced tea

Photo by Dakota Roos

July arrives in a marine layer veil. Misty-eyed, and slightly more aloof than you imagined. Though, after the raucous presence of June—with all that color, expanse and urgency—a touch less spectacle is a welcome vibe. You offer her a coffee, but she prefers iced tea. With lemon and, what you consider to be altogether too much sugar. But what do you know?

You sense that she has something on her mind, something she’s perpetually just about to say. But doesn’t. Finally, after she has drunk the tea, she tells you she needs to lay down for a bit. Not to nap, but rather “to rest her eyes.”

You begin leading her to the guest room. She politely, softly says, “No, no. I only rest outside.” Of course. It would be a crime to waste this good air.

Her demure entrance followed by her perfectly still repose out on your patio makes you wonder if she might be a little lazy after all.

But you are completely mistaken.

For she rises from the chaise lounge like a fireball—this bleaching light, the hovering heat; all that setting of brand new wings to beat—no one else on earth could make that happen all at once.

As she stands up, her humility masks the uncontestable fact that July is an elegant and masterful maestro at work: the rumble of the bees, the sour-songed hum of unmentionable flyers; the chorale and cadenzas of wrens, thrushes, juncos, and chickadees—every call coming at exactly the right place; the wilting petals, reluctant to give way to eager seeds; the spiking sprouts of antler peaks; the smooth, and not-yet penetrable skins of an impossibly full basket of fruit just waiting, waiting, waiting—July looks each in the eye, and with her perfectly pitched whisper of a voice has only one word for them all: Yes.

And they take her advice.

You sit back and don’t say anything. You don’t want to get in her way now that you know what she is capable of, what she had on her mind to accomplish in such a short period of time. At some point, you remember your manners and offer her another iced tea, but she lets you know, in her unoffending way, that she only drinks water after noon. You fill her glass whenever you see it is empty. It is the least you can do.

July is so polite, such a gracious guest that she doesn’t even mention she has noticed you’re still gorging on those cherries. So you bring it up yourself. “I should really stop eating so many cherries every day.” You look at her, wait for her reaction. She just smiles and tilts her head a little. You learn that she is not the type to reprimand.

She goes on…

She’s painting the grasses now. They were a little too green for her taste. Muted gold hues suit her more, complement her complexion, the color of her eyes. July’s sense of style is impeccable. Understated but not remotely mundane.

And just when you think she can’t possibly do more, she goes right ahead and emphasizes the tides, turning them loose—bringing them closer in and letting them go farther out; encouraging them (in her way) to smooth out everything they touch—the prints, the pebbles; skins, scales and the newly floated drifts of wood. All the while, July winks at the moon. This is when you discover what a flirt she is, how much fun she is having building summer castles for us all.

What a lady.

It dawns on you now how much you will miss her when she has to leave, so you remind yourself to soak up every single hour you are lucky enough to spend with her.