We were pleasantly surprised yesterday to come across a "splash pad" half way along on a long hot walk home. The water refreshed us as you would expect and gave us the will to go on. The kids darted through sprigs of water. My son looked down and discovered that the spurting water created a giant surface under which there were all kinds of cracks and a holes that when played with in a certain way allowed you to churn the water downwards into little crevices. The colour of the concrete bathed us in a turquoise light that intensified our relief and insisted on how different this day was from all the wet and chilly days that preceded it. It cast a shimmery light that backlit new possibilities.
I won't visit you this month. You won't call. I will raid your garden and you won't get any of the vegetables. I will make plans without telling you about them. We'll go to the store and not buy you one single thing. Whole books will be read and I will not tell you which ones. I will watch movies and not inform you. The nasturiums will ripen. Last month was different. I changed my schedule and took time off work to be with you. I dropped all kinds of plans for us to be together. You sent me messages, I received them. I picked up food that I thought you would like at the store and sent you pictures of every beautiful thing I saw. I sang with you. We watched the Great Canadian Baking Show. You chose the recipe for the garlic scape pesto and gave me instructions for making the gooseberry jam. I am in August without you. You are in July.
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