The only great thing about February, in addition of course to it being Black History Month, is that it is not January. For those of us in New England, January was cruel. Gray. Damp. Unfriendly. On the coast, where I live, we received sprinklings of snow that melted away with the following cold rain. No cottony blankets, sparkling swaths, pristine landscapes. Nothing relieved the depression of short days blending into long nights. For New England football fans, nothing good happened at all. I’m not much of a sports person, but I’ve gone Kansas City all the way.
If you want to argue for Valentines’s Day, I’m thinking you don’t have a bunch of women friends who feel bludgeoned by rampant hearts in the markets. Suggestions for romantic dinners. Getaways. Diamond jewelry. Commerce can be cruel. For those of us who are in relationships and may or may not receive roses, if we have a true heart. A heart as in true north. True friends. We have the itchy awareness that Valentine’s Day, as celebrated, feels wrong. The same feelings arise on Mother’s Day.
My joy, remember the one thing? My joy is that the sunshine hangs about in a mauve glow that fades ever so gently over the water across the way from my home. By February 1st, the sun stays up until 5 p.m. The orb takes a deep breath and pushes away some of the clouds.
That is all it takes for me. Hell yes. Sometimes sunshine makes me cry. And smile.