It's the last day of February, and that feels infinitely impossible, yet achingly hopeful at the same time. How can this be? How is it that the shortest month of the year also feels like the longest? I want to love you, February, I really do. Your 28 days contain my grandmother's birthday, my birthday, a day dedicated to love, and you even have a long holiday weekend. You're a short one Feb, you should zip by and you should herald spring. But you don't. You've dragged your snowy, polar feet all over my back and I think I'm permanently hunched over from the chill you breathe down my neck.
Let's face it, February, if I'm writing you an ode, then it's an ode to nothing.