Facing the Sun

July.

You were my favourite month. I used to feel at home here, stretched out across your long, languid days; soaking up your happy hues—a closet full of flamingo pink, bright yellow, and swimming pool blue.

I was born under your beaming sun; your simple, clear skies.

Do you remember my sister, Shannon? She was a summer baby too. Our weekends were once full of beaches and picnics.

And family.

After my dad died, I would stay awake through your warm nights and into your early morning darkness, journaling and drawing and writing poems.

Trying to salvage something.

I said goodbye to so many things that final summer.

The last clear day I remember from that July was my birthday. A friend offered to plan a beach day to celebrate. When my sister and I got there, we saw that she had invited all her friends and none of mine. Shannon and I opened our towels and placed ourselves on the edge of their circle.

I felt like I was intruding on my own birthday.

“Does anyone want to go for a swim?” I tried. No response.

“We brought inner tubes… maybe we could paddle out to the dock?” No response.

Shannon stood. “I’ll go with you!” We wasted no time—we grabbed our inner tubes and walked straight into the water, relieved to leave the cacophony of the beach behind.

The sun was high—its reflection glittered over the lake’s surface. “Do you actually want to paddle out to the dock, or did you just want to get away from the beach?” I asked.

“Both.” She smiled.

“Me too.”

Shannon.

We flung our bodies across our inner tubes, thighs squeaking over the bright yellow vinyl, feet hanging off the edges. With cupped hands, we splashed our way across the lake—talking, confiding, laughing. Sharing easy silence. I told Shannon I was realizing things about my co-worker friend, that I thought she was kind of mean, that I no longer thought the friendship was tenable. Floating on that lake, Shannon confessed she was realizing similar things about her own friends, that so many of them weren’t the kind of people she wanted to be around.

We were talking about bullies and frenemies and what real friendship is and how you think you know people but sometimes, you don’t. The friends my sister thought she had, I didn’t know depths of their indifference or their cruelty, and neither did she. But she would. So would we all.

It took an hour to get to the dock. We climbed onto it and stood for a moment, feeling the warmth of the wooden planks under our feet. I turned to her, “I’m sorry… I didn’t realize it would take so long to cross the lake.”

“Who cares? We’re having fun!” She tossed her inner tube back in the water and jumped in after it. I did the same.

I was always the anxious sister. She was always the carefree one.

But she was right—we were having fun.

Every year, when I feel the creep of summer, I think about these hours we spent together, just her and me, sprawled on our inner tubes, splashing our way across a lake.

Two full hours together without phones, without intrusions.

Our laughter, our youth, our lives—neon and carefree under the sun.

My sister never saw another birthday, mine or hers. She died here, in July, a few weeks after that day.

And in a way, so did I.

I know I haven’t told you what happened to her, and I will. Just not today.

I used to think I could reclaim this month somehow; that I could go back to the gnarled wreckage, pick out the debris, and make it new again.

Nine years ago this July, Toby and I went on our first date. It was a few days after Shannon’s death anniversary. We were walking along the river when he asked about her. I felt the pressure of grief pushing its way into the moment. A few tears escaped, but I held the rest back.

Toby stopped walking, turned to me, and hugged me.

That was the moment I knew he was different, that he was agenda-free. That he was sincere.

Safe.

We had wristbands made after Shannon died. No one wears them anymore except for me and my mom. A few weeks into our relationship, Toby asked if we had any left. I thought for a moment, “Yeah, we still have a few tucked away somewhere.”

“Can I wear one?” he asked.

I gave him a wristband, and he never took it off. He wanted to know Shannon, to honour her. And he wanted to know my grief—to be trusted enough to hold it with me, to take care of it.

Grief scares a lot of people, but Toby wasn’t afraid. His sensitivity was my favourite thing about him, and I told him that all the time.

Sensitive people are strong. In this world, we have to be.

My Shannon bracelet and Toby’s.

February, April, July: These months are marred by the deaths of my dad, husband, and sister.

As another July reaches its end, I sit in the heat of my grief, and part of me wonders how could a month that gave me Toby still feel this bad.

But it does. Of course it does.

I think back to the way I felt at the beginning of this story when I had a place among things, when the elements still held their weight, when my body felt light enough to float above the water and solid enough to stand under the sky.

When July felt like home.

Will it ever feel that way again?

Will I ever wake up in this month and think maybe…

Maybe I could still belong here.