February is for Fever

It's sleeting.  There's no other word for what's going down (yes, literally going down) in the great state of VA.  The precipitation is too moist for snow and heavier than rain; it bounces off the car windshield like a handful of sand.  I said January was for abstemiousness; I guess February is for sleet.

Only, sleet is unsatisfying.  I want each month to have a larger purpose, a neat compression of its strengths and pecadillos into a one-line resume objective.  I want every month to tell me, clearly, why I should hire it. 

After all, every month has a birthstone.  (As a compulsive systematizer I know more of these than I really should. GOLDEN TOPAZ IS THE BEST.  Not to rain on y'alls garnet, amethyst, aquamarine, diamond, emerald, pearl,  ruby, peridot, sapphire, opal, or turquoise parades.)  Shouldn't every corner of the year have some secret to impart, something it wants to pull you aside and whisper in your ear?  The answer is yes, and this year I'm listening, hard.

So February.  If not sleet, than what? 

Not love: Valentine's Day is an accent, a brief burst of red in the drab.  Not cold, because it's not as, or dark, because it's not as.  Not waiting, because we haven't, or at least I haven't, even begun to understand that spring is possible.  Rather, February is an inward month, a quiet month, a month to be, or not to be, to stand still.

Just don't do it outside.