All summer long I thought “July blue” didn’t exist. I counted one pale, blue day after another. Each day just burned up until I doubted my memory. Maybe it isn't true; maybe it doesn't exist. Do you remember the story, the time she told us about July blue?
I know you’d say that it never happened or you’d pretend you didn’t remember. I mean mother’s been gone for a long time now, right? Maybe I dreamed up this fantasy story like I imagine everything else. But all summer I couldn’t help hoping. Each day I’d check the afternoon sky at noon and every hour or two afterwards but each blue sky was more wimpy than the last-- hardly even blue, almost white. I hardly realized what I was doing or why.