February

Tuesday is the day they give an extra discount to senior citizens at Savers.  I was heading for the door when a fellow fogy emerged and groaned as the icy wind buffeted him.  It has been that way all day.  The harbor was full of white caps, and out beyond the beach the waves were rushing shoreward with spray blowing back from them.  They reminded me of a picture I had in a children’s book in which the waves were white horses, their manes blowing in the wind. 

An aluminum gutter that needs to be tended to was vibrating when I got home.  I could imagine the oil bill rising like the meter on a New York taxi.  Annette made cocoa in the middle of the afternoon. 

I’ve been philosophical this winter.  I’ve cleaned off the car when it was covered with snow or frost. I’ve done as much shoveling as is good for me.  I’ve lugged buckets of salted sand and sprinkled ice melt.  I’ve kept dry firewood in the cellar-way.  I’ve read good books.  When the ads with the palm trees interrupted the morning news, I muted the sound and looked away from the screen. 

But now that February is half over I’m counting down.  This is a bad idea I know.  All this attention makes the month become stubborn like the water in a watched pot.  It turns twenty-eight days into the longest month.  One by one they dawn, and mentally I check them off.  As I sip my morning coffee I stare at the calendar on the kitchen door.  I can do this.  I’ve done it for a lot of years, and I can do it again. 

And what do I get when all the days have been endured?  March.