It’s no longer a devastating pain. It doesn’t burn to the soul. It can’t physically take me to the floor in anguish like it did 3 years or even 18 months ago. But February is my foe. I guess I’ll battle with him every year for the rest of my life.
Mid month he’s promoting love, and I don’t have that kind anymore.
From the 14th on, I can replay, day by day, the scenes from three years ago – the weeks before she died.
It starts out OK – just an extension of his cousin January. But then “What a Fool Believes” comes on the radio, and I start singing like I’m Michael McDonald.
She’d laugh at that every single time – rolling those eyes. “You do love that song don’t ya’ baby?,” her question would just add fuel. I know I have her attention now, I ham it up even more.
He came from somewhere back in her long ago
The sentimental fool don’t see
Trying hard to recreate what has yet to be created
Once in her life
I used to sing in laughter. Now it’s through tears.
This year I made it until the 10th before I felt the hole. No weeping at church until last week. There is a circle of emotional instability that hangs in my core at this time of year. It’s bigger than an egg but smaller than a baseball, right above my stomach. I can take a deep breath, I can swallow and hold it down – most of the time.
Only one week and it’ll be over.
I hate you February. I hate your guts.