On the first day of July, a baby was born, beautiful blue eyes blinking before he’d even breached.  The only sound he ever made was a faint grunt, as if coming to a conclusion after ruling out a number of less likely possibilities.

On the second day of July, a toddler taught himself to walk by mimicking the sky’s clouds that galloped passed his nursery window.  His bounding gait taught others how to dance and proved to birds that it was possible to fly.

On the third day of July, a frumpish little boy walked along a black sand beach along the north fork of the Isle of Man, staring over the water at the water color, rainbow sunset.  The gentle breeze whispered sweetly a song of praise, a psalm, an anecdote, advice on how to grow up, how to be a father an uncle and a brother.  The frumpish little boy grinned and spit into the sea.

On the fourth day of July, an awkward teen fumbled through his clothes, looking for a lock or a clasp or a hinge or a knot.  Although he had never seen it with his own eyes, he knew it was there, which is why he stumbled, stammered, paused, or blushed.

On the fifth day of July, a young adult made his bed.  He folded the corners and tucked the sheets, he fluffed the pillows and replaced the comforter.  He stood back, looking upon that which had created and realized that, in reality, he had not actually made anything; rather, he had simply reorganized what had already been.

On the sixth day of July, a man sat on his couch, reflective of his life thus far.  He remembered the good times, yes, but he also considered all of the wasted hours and how fast it all seemed.  He wondered if there was something that he was missing or if this was really it.

On the seventh day of July, an octogenarian stubbed his toe, yelled a curse, and was struck down, dead by the god he swore he never believed in.