February does not feel the way this February feels. We’ve had five feet less snow this winter than we had last winter, and right now, outside the window I’m facing, there is no snow on the ground and the sun is out and the trees are not naked and somehow February is dressed like April.
Still cold, most evenings, but not so cold that you always see your breath.
I like seeing my breath, but not every night, and not every day, and not for the months of winter I’ve learned to tolerate (if not occasionally enjoy) while living in New England.
Can’t complain about this winter, Holly said last night. She hates winter. Hates New England a little because of winter. But makes me wonder why this winter is not really winter.
If we had kept talking about winter not winter, she’d have thrown in something about global warming. I’m sure she would have thrown in something about global warming. Give her a soapbox, and she will convince you to recycle. Empty boxes, flattened, and empty jars, washed clean.
Making sure our children have a world to inherit, she says.
I throw everything away.
February dressed like April and I’m in a jacket given to me. Black. Stripes across the shoulders. I am in love, a little, with this jacket. I broke the zipper in December. The day after I was given the jacket. I’ve found a place that will repair the jacket. But I do not believe in alterations.
I should believe in alterations.
I danced in the rain once. I was 18. I should say I spun in circles in the rain. Hardly dancing. Two left feet and all. Not two left feet. More a left-of-center self-consciousness that only, in the last year or so, evaporated. Water on leaves. Hearts on misty windows. February dressed like April. And I’m in purple.