February is Short
but strong enough to pick you up
You’ve been pressing your nose to the ice cold window for days now. Almost here, almost here, almost here…
For while it’s true that you have come to a new understanding of January’s merits, you still count on February to bring the mid-winter relief you so desperately need right now.
When he arrives you barely hear him approach. In fact, you don’t hear anything at all, but the dog does. With a heart full of hope, you open the front door and find a sparkling new EV on the drive. You laugh with childish glee, grab your coat, run outside, and in your hasty enthusiasm almost bump into the hood of the car, just as the driver’s side door opens.
— And here I was worried you wouldn’t be eager to see me, February says.
You hold your arms out for a hug, which he willingly accepts. February is short, but strong enough to pick you up. As you embrace, your head falls over his shoulder, where you notice a faint sprinkle of dandruff. His tweed hunting jacket scratches your chin a little, but you don’t mind.
This juxtaposition of country squire attire next to the space age vehicle would seem strange on anyone else. But on February it seems completely natural. After all, he is both old-fashioned and modern; timeless and of the future.
You tell him how great he looks; offer to take his suitcase, which he does not allow. You compliment his new car, which he accepts. Graciously.
As he settles into the guest room you prepare a pot of green tea, all the time collecting in your mind the questions you want to ask: what is he working on? where will he travel this year? has he been in touch with his cousin, July? (You had so much fun with her when she visited.) You pour the first cup just as he enters the kitchen.
February takes a drink, and thanks you. You want to give him a minute to collect himself before engaging in conversation, but before you can say a thing, he apologizes, and excuses himself from the kitchen. He says he’ll need to work while he’s here.
You understand, and ask him if he’d like to use your laptop.
— No, no. Thank you. I brought Theodore with me, he says, winking.
February goes out to his car. You expect him to return with a tabby-cat or a Frenchie. But he returns with a beat-up, black vintage typewriter case.
“Ah,” you say, going along with it. “Theodore. I don’t think we’ve met.”
—Yes, he says, bringing the case close in to his chest. We’ve been through it. One of these days, Theodore will confess to everything, and then I’m doomed. Or, I’ll be famous. Either way, I’ll owe him.
When you bring him the rest of the tea, February is already at the desk, looking steady-eyed at Theodore, now freshly unearthed from his bruised coffin; properly attired with a fresh sheet of paper.
— Thank you. This will take some concentration. February winks at you as he takes the tea. I’ll be out in a few, he says as you close the door.
You assumed he meant a few hours, but you don’t see February for the next several days. Not for morning tea, not for lunch. Not for dinner or dessert. You know he’s alive and well enough because every so often you hear him raise his voice to poor, old Theodore, and even though you can’t make out specific words, you don’t need to know exactly what’s being said. February’s temper doesn’t require direct translation.
Just as often, you hear him laughing—a great roar of a laugh. Contagious, it makes you giggle yourself. These boisterous sounds coming from the guest suite make you feel less alone, even though your guest is, practically speaking, invisible to you. February’s exclamations—his belly-laugh, his potty-mouth cursing; dramatic sighing and death-scene groaning—are all over the emotional map. The only consistent sound among the audible stream is the tap-tap-tap of Theodore’s keys.
Weeks later, while driving home from work, you notice the light. Specifically, you register that it’s several minutes past 5:00 PM and broad daylight is still intact. Your heart jumps, as if you had never seen full-spectrum light before. You step on the gas (harder than you ought to) hurrying home and through the front door where you rip off your coat and throw it on the floor. You’ve got to tell February about this! And even though you’re sure he’s in his room, tapping away, you’re prepared to break your own house rule and knock on the door anyway. But before you get there, you bump into him in the middle of the hall.
“Did you notice the light?!” « » — It’s almost ready!!
Your words collide at the same moment your bodies do. Luckily there was just enough time to open your mutual set of arms so that the impact is friendly rather than semi-fatal. Still, you’re shocked. Literally. February’s electric energy has passed a current through the barrier of your skin. The jolt causes both of you to start laughing, which wakes up the dog. As your loyal hound prances down the hall to find out what’s going on, February reaches down to pet him, shocking the unsuspecting mutt as well.
You could almost see the spark on that one.
The next day, February joins you for breakfast and for dinner. Suddenly, he’s a roaming fixture in the shared living quarters, rotating through volunteer positions as butler, waiter, sommelier, and DJ. Late in the evening he asks you in-depth questions while simultaneously flattering you, like a skilled and charming talk show host. No matter that it’s still too cold to sit outside. This is the most fun you’ve had in months.
You tell him that you’ve spotted the first leaves pushing out of the elder branches and the pink nubs of the peonies growing taller; that you saw daffodil shoots by the side of the road two days ago; how just this morning the sparrows and chickadees seemed to sing louder and longer than even the day before. The frogs are starting to croak and the Flickers beginning to flick. And the Red Dragon: its catkins are drooping so, so beautifully.
February puts his fork down, and winks at you.
After a few moments of silence, he puts his napkin on the table, leans back on his chair.
— I’m glad you appreciate it. I felt good about this one, but you never really know how the work will be perceived.
You’re not sure what February is talking about. If he’s referring to something he’s written, you’re positive he hasn’t shared it with you. He goes on to tell you about how difficult the tulip bulbs were; how hard it was to find an opening for them to begin.
—I know you can’t see them yet, but you will. Hopefully the petals will look just the same. The same as when the bulbs open easily. I just never know. Not until it’s out there.
February finally calls it a night and retreats back to his room.
The next morning, you find Theodore on the entry bench, tucked back into his battle-scarred armor case. You’re fairly certain you know what this means, and it makes you a little sad. You’re no good at good-byes. Nor is February, so you both keep the conversation practical.
“Green tea to go,” you ask him?
— Actually, would you make me one of those Nespresso drinks you like so much?
You raise your eyebrows in surprise. You haven’t known February to ever drink coffee. He notices your expression.
— I’m vowing to try new things in my old age.
“That sounds exhausting,” you reply. February chuckles. You’re going to miss that laugh.
Out on the drive he opens his trunk to safely tuck old Theodore away, as you both spot a coyote at the end of the drive, mere yards from where you’re standing. This one’s beauty, with a shining, puffy coat of silver-gray and red patches of fur behind the ears. The coyote stops, realizing its being observed; stands perfectly still, for at least a minute, before sauntering on. You can’t be sure, but you would swear the coyote winked at the two of you before it continued.
As February leaves your sadness lifts. Which isn’t to say you will never feel blue again. You understand now that like everything else, sadness is formed in such a way as to dissipate, to be absorbed; to migrate and decay; to reform itself without disappearing completely. As the buds, feathers, waves and pine cones do. As the daylight too.
February may not have built the natural world, but like all great poets, he distilled it, pouring its essence like water into a glass, for anyone to drink; for anyone and everyone who needed to quench their delicious thirst.
This post is the 9th in a series begun in June 2024. Accounts of my encounters with past house guests can be found on the Visitors section of this publication.
Thank you for reading.
{| AC
Thank you for helping me to see February as a friend, instead of a curse!