Fucking February

February must be a good month to die. When working out how shit would go down, Death must have argued for February.

Death- "Alright Life, I want a month when I can double my productivity, increase my stats. How about January?"
Life- "No way. Too depressing for the start of the year."
Death- "Alright, December then."
Life- "Not fair, there are already tons of people headed your way on account of the holidays. No."
Death- "June."
Life- "Absolutely not. That's one of my biggest months and you know it."
Death- "You pick then, but I want one."
Life- "Fine. Have fucking February. But we're making it short."

In January, I feel refreshed. I shake off the year before and set my sights on the possibilities ahead. Around mid month I am still balls to the wall, but February starts fucking with me a little. As the days push me closer and closer to February, that underlying nag of sadness seeps its way into the foreground. I hear songs, see pictures, smell smells that bring me closer to memories of people I've loved and lost. I've wondered if it's them influencing reminders to be sure their memories are cherished. I wouldn't like that really. Seems desperately sad to think once you've moved on from this place you'd be interested in vying for the attention of the living that way. I hope it's just me making stronger associations because I feel my grief again.

Either way... my February is painful every year. It began as a child, knowing my mother's father passed away on February 10th, when she was the tender age of 19. Once I understood why she was sad that day, I thought about it too much, the way kids do when they have learned something new. I wonder at the coincidence of having had my first miscarriage on February 10th as well.

I won't go through the volume of the dead in February. It's long. It includes Beowulf, my cousin Leslie and Marty's wonderful and beloved dog, who died in February almost a decade ago. I think of that every year too. He was a special person. He used to say "I love you" and he meant it. You could see it in his eyes.

It's somehow nice that now my mom doesn't have to live the grief of the 10th alone. We talk and cry together, support one another on that day now. I like to think my little angel is in my grandfather's arms and that they are showering one another with love. I don't know if I believe that, but it feels good in a blissful "escape from fucking February" kind of way.

And that brings us to my grandmother. She didn't die in February. She died March 2nd. That makes me smile every year. I miss her a great deal and I cherish her memory all year round. She was a fabulous woman... full to the brim of her 4 and a half feet with the wisdom of experience, boundless love for her family, the skill to work a kitchen like no body's business and a set of bona fide brass balls. I can imagine how the conversation with Death might have gone if he'd stopped by her bedside in February that year...

Death- "Okay Ruth, it's time to go now."
Grammy- "I think I'll wait until March. Too many people have died in February in this family."
Death- "Okay, you let me know when you're ready."

She was that kind of commanding little lady. Fucking Ferbruary's match.