something about july.

The sound is exactly the same as it always was. Mid-July, 9:30pm. The fan is whirring in the same way the one in my childhood bedroom did. It’s this white-noise that could bring me to tears, reminding me of late evening, summer swims with my mom. The crisp, sharp oranges that melted into navy that melted into the ocean and the sky. All of it oozing, like honey from hot days that feel foreign and nostalgic, even as I sit in my room, in mid July now. 

Whirring is the same to me as the sound of the car beeping, key in the ignition, “can you shake the sand off your shoes?” the sand, cascading, still going somewhat everywhere despite better efforts. Little toes, attached to little humans who would get sleepy or crave ice-cream on the less than ten minute drive home. Oh I miss home so much, I could cry. And I am, I am honestly crying. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how you imagine your future, from that young point of view. When I thought of the big, wide world, I thought I’d take it on with my family. And I am, but not in the way I pictured. You don’t really think about that when you start boarding flights, on your own, it’s somewhere in the planning process, in a phone call to mom and dad reviewing your itinerary and they say they’ve always wanted to go there too. Oh yes, I am crying. I’ve always wanted to go home, anyways where really is that anymore? If not the warm sound of your friends calling your name, arriving to a Friday evening happy hour or maybe it’s the runs you take to the ocean, by yourself at midday on Sunday when the air is bright and open. Anyways, god I sound like I don’t know home or love, but I do, I do. It’s absolutely everywhere and I just can’t pin it down. 

Elizabeth Stewart-Bain