Dear July: Week One // Leaving, London, and Lazy Sundays

Dear July:

I have been waiting to write about you since I saw the series of short films on Youtube done by a girl called Emily, which you can find here.

I thought the eloquent way she spoke of your long summer days and changeable nature (leaving home, coming home, traveling...), and your late family evenings filled with sparklers and champagne, was so beautiful I itched to try it myself.

July has always been a favourite of mine. The fickle weather of June has subsided to comfortably warm air dispersed by gentle breezes, your nights are long and aimless, and you fall in between the three months of summer: after one has become accustomed to the season and before the worries and woes of the Labour Day long weekend have begun to surface like driftwood and algae upon your oceans.

Last July was filled with goodbyes. You are too, but goodbyes of a different kind. On Wednesday I said goodbye to three amazing friends and a girl I have come to think of as my own, and on Thursday I said goodbye to a city I have come to weave inside of my own identity and a best friend I have discovered shares the same lifeblood that courses through my veins.

As my bus pulled away from Gallieni on Thursday morning - away from her and my city - I felt in equal strengths the pull of home and the tug of everything I was leaving behind: material and otherwise. It's a strange mixed emotion, coming home, a happiness and a finality swirled like blue and yellow with undertones of melancholy on an artist's palette.

Any traces of discomfort caused by my aching heart and gigantic, boulder-weight suitcase were soon replaced by a deep sensation of comfort as I arrived in Maidenhead, though. Here, I have PG Tips and family and a beautiful home to stay in and a sprawling garden edged by rosebushes to read novels in. Here, I don't have to worry about remembering to buy milk before Sunday or if I have enough food in the fridge to last the week. Here, I fall asleep to murmured noises and wake up to hushed and tiny voices on the landing below my bedroom. A yellow light fills me up and floats me through my transit home.

My favourite day was Sunday. There isn't much I can write here to express the perfection of the day upon which my Aunt's birthday fell, but I will attempt with words and pictures. It was birthday cards lining the mantle piece, presents littering the floor of the room overlooking the garden as I sunk into squishy leather couches, and walking along the Thames to Ray Mill Island as weeping willows kissed the water's glassy surface. It was strolling into town with my uncle to buy a birthday cake and eating a roast dinner outside on white tables and chairs under pink umbrellas with orange squash, the food laid out on a bench: Yorkshire puddings plump and spilling out of their dish.

It was trampolining and the little ones jumping in the pool, bunnies hopping around their hutch in the background. It was saying goodbye and knowing those who were leaving would always be there, like stars hidden by blue skies and sunshine in the daytime.

On Friday I return home.

Until next week, July.

Love always,
Coral