The Tulips are in bloom and they have been placed in a vase on our Kitchen table. As February is on the brink of its final week, I think we are tethering on a fine line between Spring taking it’s position for the year. The sun has not yet risen and the world hasn’t entered a period of continuous February Summers. Yet I know the solemn greyed clouds are there for the last time. 

 

Winter is no longer mine. Winter is no longer mine. Winter is no longer mine. 

 

I stand barefoot in my garden watching two birds. The trees waver, It is not as cold as the day before last I think, the season is washing away. 

 

It was only a few weeks ago that the first drop of February had arrived. At 2:32 p.m. it had begun to snow, soft slow slips of snow falling until they found their place, on the ground. By 3:23 p.m. the garden had been covered. 

 

I had leaned against the windowpane in my bedroom, the window slightly ajar. The cold struck me, violently. Its chill slipped past my skin, until it met my bones, but after a few moments passed I adjusted. 

 

I had wished to surrender myself to the cold, letting it seep into me until my skin began to redden. I knew that when Summer does arrive, the heat will become oppressive, fulminating and I will begin to beg. This time for the relief from Winter. 

 

The snow picked up speed, getting heavier. I stayed glued to the window, watching. 

 

A family walked past, wrapped in giant coats, their smiles sewn onto their faces. If they looked up at that moment, they’d have seen my figure draped in the window. To them, that’s how I’d exist. Forever. I’d just be the girl in the window. 

 

Two days later the snow had melted, I knew Winter was depleting. It drew away quicker and quicker until now.  

 

Something about this season is glorious. Summer’s brag of contentment is obvious, it’s warmth is all-encompassing and the glazed nights, splashed with indigo, last a lifetime. Yet Winter offers a joy in the mundane existence in the synonymity of home. It is harder to find, but it never disappears. 

 

In February we exist only in small moments, I study them religiously. Attempting to breathe them all in before they latch onto the thickening winds and are swept away. 

 

I think I would like to remember this moment; in all its promise for the time which lies ahead. 

 

Oh February February February. How I love you.