For most people, July looks like ice cream, eaten on the edge of a lake somewhere in the blazing heat of the day, but for us, this year, it looked like twenty bowls filled to the brim. It looked like the bulk section of BJ’s, family packs at Wegman’s, dinner reservations that took up half the restaurant. It looked like music, like car rides, sweaty limbs sticking to leather seats. It looked like the back of a debit card, sliding in to machine after machine at pump after pump. It looked like hotel patios and restaurant menus, late nights around the mesmerizing flame of the fire.
July was familiar voices and foreign accents, mingled together over coffee, tea, wine, beer, mixed drinks, interrupting each other, laughing with each other, building up in a slow crescendo until you could not longer distinguish which voice belonged to which person. It was late nights, early mornings, lulled to sleep by the hum of a fan, woken by a baby’s laughter. It was peanut butter pie, Christmas cake, burgers, ripe watermelon, bare feet on grass and no sweaters for days.