A Conversation for Late Winter
A dialogue between months
“I’ll be seeing you,” said March. “Thanks for the lift.” She surveyed the bus terminal as she adjusted her worn canvas pack on her back. The chilly wind whispered through her loose chestnut hair as if asking her to play. Distractedly, she brushed away the curls that tickled her face.
February had come around from his side of the winterized truck with chains, only recently removed from, the tires and windshield wiper fluid which wouldn’t freeze as low as -30 degrees. He was not much taller than her. His ice blue eyes caught her warm green ones.
Now she rolled hers. “Don’t look at me like that. We go through this every year, February. It’s old hat.”
“Take me with you,” February said, finding his voice, speaking his truth.
“You know you can’t. No one likes to see you in my month.”
“Is it April?” He couldn’t stop himself.
March assessed him but remained quiet.
He sighed, ran his hands through his already tousled white blond hair, and conceded. “I know, I know. April has a thing for May. April showers and May flowers and all that. I know you work alone. At least tell me where you will go?”
Her silence continued.
“Please. I need to know where to send my love letters,” he gently teased trying to make up for his burst of petulance from a moment ago. He reached out one black glove clad hand to touch the cuff of her lined jean jacket.
March smiled then. It was a small smile full of sadness, yet it was still a smile. She sighed and looked longingly at the warmth of the terminal. “I like to start in the Midwest. They are the most appreciative. Although, my inner lioness is prowling so maybe I’ll head to California.”
“What about your inner lamb? Where is she?”
“I haven’t heard a bleat from her. Maybe she won’t come around this year.”
“April won’t be happy if you spend your month destroying things, especially after everything I threw at California.”
“That’s right. How could I forget?” The idea made her laugh out loud. She covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed.
February yearned to touch that hand. He hated doing this, this groveling, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Please,” he said.
March’s eyes swung back in his direction, then she dropped her gaze to the sidewalk. She toed a pebble with the front of her grass green Converse. “You know how this works,” she said. You even got an extra day this year.”
“Let me come with you,” insisted February, “Our time together is never long enough.”
“January is waiting for you.”
February stepped back and chuffed like a Clydesdale. “January,” he said with disdain.
“You like him well enough once I’m not around,” March said without jealousy or humor. She said it because it was what it was.
“He’s not you,” February said. He said it unabashedly because it also simply was what it was.
She glanced behind her shoulder at the terminal again.
February knew it was calling to her. Time was calling her.
“I’ll catch you next year,” said March and, to soften the blow, “I’ll miss you.”
“Will you,” asked February, once again, unable to hide the hurt and resentment in his voice.
March reached out and touched his cold cheek with her spring warmed hand. “Let me go with your blessing.”
February looked down. “I hate this,” he said. He blew out a strong breath of frosted white frustration which the wind blew quickly away from March. He leaned in and kissed the top of March’s chestnut head. Then he wrapped his arms around her, one arm going above her pack, the other below to pull her body as close to his as possible in this public place.
For that one moment she returned the gesture wholeheartedly and without holding back. She dropped her guard and buried her warm face into the coolness of his neck. Their physicality silently spoke a year’s worth of words into the lack of space between the two of them.
“If only,” he began, into her ear.
“If only,” March agreed without letting him finish and breaking away.
She turned and walked toward the bus terminal.
“I love you,” February called after her not wanting to leave things where they were, needing to place a bandage of peace in the distance between them. It would make things easier next year when she returned.
“I know,” she called over her shoulder, over the pack on her back, over the time that was widening between them.
February, helpless, watched her go. When he could see her no longer, he climbed back into the cab of his truck with the heavy sandbags in the bed and the heat blasting in the cab. He drove away.
The door of the bus station whispered shut behind March.
Another month over.
A new month beginning.
The year ticked on.
