letter to january

Dear January,

It may be too early to be writing you but I feel like I must tell you how confused I am by you. We've always had a kind of conflicted relationship. I love certain things about you: the promise you bring with a new year, a clean slate. You are a month of hopefulness. And you are the month of my birth, which automatically brings its own set of complex feelings for you. You've always been a month of change. One day you are bitter and cold, frosty with your embrace and the next you feel like Spring, balmy and slick. You are always fierce and unpredictable, not completely unlike me, I suppose.

Today you can't seem to decide whether you want to be nice or not. You are prickly, howling outside my window. I'm not ignoring you dear, January. I take you into my heart with fondness. I believe in your promises of change. I want to dream with you and believe in the possibilities. You offer so much to me this year: campus visits to universities, my parents' visit, a celebration of my 30th year with you. I could never forget you or turn away from you. I am sorry I have not always been pleasant to you and that I might have cursed your snow filled paths a time or two. But since you are a month in which we, as a culture, resolve to change behaviors, habits, and rid ourselves of things which hold us back I figure you and I can make a new start, too.

I am sure you will turn cold, again, soon enough. It is in your nature, after all. You can't help the way the ice forms like little snowflakes on my window. There is a romance to you, January, one that wishes to cover everything in a blanket of cold and white, to keep us inside perhaps to snuggle to someone, to seek warmth with one another. Maybe you have a plan, one that frames how each of us will see you and the year ahead. I cannot know nor understand your mysteries. I suppose that is what makes me love you even more.

C'mon, January, you know it's true. How could I resist your charms, especially today? Our love may be brief as I know how changeable and fickle you can be. But for now I will revel in your strange and surreal affections.

While it lasts, I am yours.

Devon