The end of February - always a bit like being pulled through a hedge backwards for me, and this year I even look a bit like that, having missed the moment for a much-needed haircut over half term, what with being ill and my hairdresser being something of a vortex (a major component of turbulent flow), and not appearing to me a useful part of my recovery process.
February stumbling towards March as only February can. These unmistakable harbingers of spring, the snowdrops and crocuses, the busier birds, the increased light - mingling uneasily with the temperature, the ice in the puddles, the snow along the field sides. As a time for suicide it always strikes me as a moment, when if only he could have waited just a little longer, everything might have begun to look different. Or who knows, maybe the early breath of spring was more than he could bear.
The elusive spring and the elusive 29th disappearing together forever hand in hand.
Often I don't even think about it that much (last year yes this year not so much) but then my body feels it in the season, in the light, in the approach of another phase of our lives, another arrival at the end of winter. And the calendar always goes on about it - the truncated month looks so different - I get paid sooner, the date and day in February is echoed by the day and date in March in these non-leap years. And for some reason there are always suicide synchronicities - Sylvia Plath all over the radio this year. And I always find myself worrying about someone close to me killing themselves - unexpectedly, needlessly. I am thinking about other things, but my father's death is always nibbling at the edge of consciousness, a counterpoint to the rest.
2 comments:
February does well and truly bite the big one. My dad died in February, as well. I'd gladly join any movement dedicated to eradicating February. And Tuesdays.
Hey Marcheline, thanks for this - appreciate your company. Getting a bit lonely round here!
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