letter to february

Dear February,
Who knew that the same cupid-toting, adoring all lovers everywhere attitude you seem to express would also make you a cold hard bitch? Me, that's who. Oh yes, you cannot fool me, February, with your hearts and your sugary candies and your old fashioned sentiments. You've rained down your vengeance on all of those who hold April and October dear in our hearts, those of us who love the smell of fresh cut grass and the first pinks and reds of Springs, who feel giddy over the first crisp turn of leaves, the way fall air smells differently like something wonderful is about to occur at any moment. But something wonderful doesn't occur, February. Instead we get bitterness and ice.

You have no reason to feel slighted. You, the month of groundhogs and presidents and love. Has the burden of so many things in such a short time weighed you so that you unleash all of your anger at those longer, lovelier months on us, who might grow to love you? This is not the way to gain our trust or our attention, February. And you should know that.

Alas, February, you are almost over but not before you greet us with a combination of the most hated weather. I didn't realize you and the wind had become such fast friends. March will be jealous. I hope she doesn't take it out on us. If she does, February, I will blame you.