July's Closing Number

It seems as though July is the perennial disappointment. It is forever slipping out quickly and quietly, year in and year out.

We expect much from July - possibly too much. We want six or seven weekends, not four or five. We want beach days, outdoor work days, long night walks enjoying the sultry summer air ending with ice cream at the local ice cream shop, early quiet mornings on the porch full of contemplation and solitude. We want a month of lazy sunny Sunday afternoons and garden tea parties every third day. Fresh veggies, fresh fruit, swim lessons, vacation days, work days for all those extra projects. Fireworks, picnics, hikes, celebrations of every sort -- and all of this we expect in never-ending fashion.

Poor, dear July. Ever filling us with hope and anticipation, ever letting us down, leaving us clamoring for more. Like a concert that sends you soaring, the audience applauds and cheers and jumps to their feet calling, "Encore!!!" Another song or two is played and the audience soars even higher. They whistle, stomp, applauding even longer, crying, "More, more!!!" But the end must come. The energy must subside. We must come down from the heights once again.

Ah, poor, dear July. You send us soaring but cannot hold us there forever.

The gardens of July are full of riotous color, abundant in lush greens, bright lights and shadows. "Please, don't fade yet! Please don't yellow and then brown!" We pluck the blooms, dead heading faithfully in hopes of more to come, but the next crop is smaller in size and number. No, she will have her way. This garden knows she will exhaust herself and be done, giving way to late summer color and foliage. And the gardener, too, acknowledges; the season is now begun to wane, wending its way to autumn's days of harvest and closure.

Oh, poor, dear July. On this thirty-first day we will hear voices far and wide crying out with dismay, "I can't believe it will be August tomorrow! How did July pass so quickly?!"

But this is your way. You make your entrance with noise and celebration, hearts joyfully welcoming your promise of summer's fullness, and then you slip away quickly and quietly, leaving us wanting more. Clamoring for more.

Our dear, glorious July. Performer extraordinaire.