She was July’s heat, scorched to the ground. She was August’s first monsoon; brutal, yes, but the soil would never be fertile without her. She was September’s uncertainty, when you’re not sure you want to keep going. She was October’s first chill and the warm tea cupped in your palms while leaves flare orange outside the window. She was November’s first snow, the thrill of sleds and snowmobile sugar She was the whole of December; reminiscence, regret, guilt, nostalgia, all at once.