I used to love you so much.
In Georgia, your arrival meant that spring was just around the corner. That certain slant of light in the late afternoon was like a kiss, a promise of something more to come. By the time you were on your way out, the daffodils would be almost in bloom.
In my younger years, you held so much excitement. A crush of social events. Afternoons full of extracurriculars. The beginning of track season. The planning of spring break.
As I grew older, your little month meant big things, none more significant than that night seven years ago when I said, “I do.”
Oh, February, what happened to you? You changed for me, when I moved here. And I am not as hardy as I thought I was. Now you mean grey. And then more grey. And then – impossibly – more grey. You do not signal anything like the imminent arrival of spring; that will not come until late April, maybe May. There will be no daffodils here for a long time.
Your snow, which looked so beautiful falling from your vast (grey) sky turned next to slush, and then to ice, and now to some (grey) mix I have no name for. Everywhere I step is ugly, and treacherous. I ruin my shoes for you, February.
Your kiss no longer means warmth, it means illness. How many days of your month have already flown by, while I and my brood stayed cooped and feverish in our house? I missed my anniversary date for you, February.
Now, dear February, you are almost gone. I suppose I should be glad, mean as you have been. But I am wistful, still. For one, I know March to be far crueler than you – he actually promises spring without ever delivering; he goads me with his lengthening days while withholding warmer, fairer skies.
Also, how could I ever be entirely angry at a month that gave all us knitters one beautiful, enduring (and ubiquitous) gift: