Letter to February

Hi February,

I was in middle school when I had read a story entitled "The Twelve Months". I do not remember the details except for twelve men seated in the woods with names from January to December, and aging young to old. Their virtues were similarly declining too. Why I mention this, I don't know. I have a bias towards the months of October and December, and you have never been special in my life, except in the last year.

Yes, I have had many loves over an elongated feeling of time, of many kinds. Juvenile compulsions, movie-inspired, bored, daddy-like, committed, passionate. But the one from last year was rather dear (blush). I take the road to college in the morning which has a fond February memory of a car ride to see the first yellows on fading winter trees. The punctuated oranges on the brazen roads had seemed like they were in a conspiring urgency of decking up a bride. I smiled this morning at that crossing of memory, wondering if it is yours too. I smiled further realizing I do not wish to know. I am happy to sometimes cuddle in the thought of your unexpected showers of kindness.

You unveiled your days into afternoons and nights of well-loved togetherness. You revived the teenage tingling excitement of being part of a 'secret'. I wished you never ended. But you did. As the radio sells the air-time of love, I smell some in the air too. Strange, strong, believable self-love. Something which I had lacked all my life. It is an entry level sad smell which makes its way to that of hopeful contentment. It is a composite smell of all such loves that made you a month of expectations, so long. It is a smell that redefines you as a month regeneration.

I think I will make you third in my list of favourite months. I still get to have oranges, you see. Oh, but you have competition from June, when the monsoons raise the curtains.

A lack of loquacious love brings me here,

K.