Do you remember when ... February 10, 2018
February is a tough month. Most often, for those of us living anywhere north, this month is unsufferable. Outside on the covered veranda, in a small pot, hyacinths are desperate to survive the temperatures that indeed will dive again. The cat is sick of the snow too. The birds she expects to hunt in the garden have yet to return from their foray south.
February is challenging for another reason altogether. It is my mother's birthday on the 11th. And, heartbreakingly, her leaving day falls on the 18th, followed by her memorial on the 26th—much ado for someone who can no longer complain about the length of winter with me.
By the start of the month, most of us are tired of winter and gloom. We no longer care about the breathtaking beauty of pristine snow falling on the fir tree, the holiday season, and snuggling while watching a fire blaze. I don't argue with the terms February sets out, but it's also a stalemate between what has passed and what the future holds.
Winter, rightfully, still has another 49-day claim, I, on the other hand, am cheering from the sidelines, secure behind the window, on those rare days when the sun shines for summer. My insensitive feelings toward the month don't go unnoticed: I'm miserable and long to walk without having to bundle up. I want to feel the breath of summer heat caress my skin and rekindle a batch of vitamin D. By now; I must be deficient.
But the month has hardly begun, and I've had already had to add another checkmark to the calendar. For on the 6th day of the month, Churchie, a small dog under my care had to leave this world rather hurriedly and unexpectedly.
With a last kiss on his cheek, I wished him a speedy journey. Before his last breath escaped his tiny chest, he was already romping in the green grass of heaven, tumbling over the Rainbow Bridge to be with his brother. RIP little guy. You trespassed onto my heart, and there you will remain.
