Sometimes in February, I lose it.
I find myself sitting at our dining room table, eating a perfectly nice meal with my lovely husband, unable to stop crying.
Or for a week in a row, I wake up every morning and seize on the ugliest thought I can find. I marinate in it. I am a skin-covered bag of rage.
One year, I walked, and that helped.
Last year, we went to Key West, and that was an escape. But then we came back and February was still here, even though it was March.
Dar Williams has a song like that–“And February was so long, that it lasted into March.” She’s a good, Midwestern woman. She understands.
I can feel it coming on, this February illness. A hopelessness. A breaking point. Cold that kills small, delicate things.
I don’t know why there aren’t more songs and poems about February. Perhaps because it crushes all the artistic ability right out of us. I haven’t really written anything for days. Except this.
I like happy endings. I like to think of my life shaped that way. I remind myself that I can see the tiny shoots of daffodil leaves already, poking their way out of the ground. They have a deeper understanding of winter, one that tells them it’s drawing to a close. They have a longer wisdom.