Hello, I am here, living in high summer and frolicking at the end of July.
I have been haunting this house again, walking barefoot and wishing the cool air would spread across the hallways. Some rooms feel like the air is holding water, humid and thick. Others, I can breathe in.
I have hated this month, and I have loved it.
I think July is a beacon, a lighthouse on the coast of the year. But sometimes, oftentimes, I don’t want to return to land, and the light it shines is blinding, so I cover my eyes and look away.
Because what if I want to stay at sea, and what if that isn’t metaphor? What if the sea is the quiet and calm, and the land— the land is the storm?
And what am I truly doing this season, anyway, other than growing older and pining for fall? I am floundering, as my husband would tell me, floundering around the manor all day like I am lost.
I walk the halls, and I look at the wood grain, and then I stare at the new piece of art.
I say strange things like “Look at this, letter, isn’t it written nicely?” and he nods at me with a little bit of worry. Then I get angry and say, “What do you know?” and I walk away to confer with the ghosts.
Because what is this eternal sunshine and why does it make me tired? Why does it feel like I must become something else when nature is so loud?
He is mocking me, I tell you, Helios in the sky.
But I am here, still, haunting this house, and I am praying to the gods for the fall. Ungrateful thing, I think I must be. But I cannot care less.
Because I still have the crows and the spider by the gate, and they are my friends, you see.
And I still have the echinaceas that bloom in the fountain, and I still have so many years with these bones.
So I will haunt this house for this season, and I will let my husband worry. I will look close at the art, and away from the lighthouse.
If you need me, send a raven.
—
(Paid subscribers can listen to this letter read aloud by Shelby.)
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