The shortest month is the longest of the year. February, the last stage of the winter triathalon, is a test of endurance. With our heads down, we push forward, tapping into whatever energy reserves we can find to finish out the season.

Like soup gone cold, the joy has dissipated from winter. We are no longer entranced by falling snow, crackling fires, or waking to hoarfrost on the trees. The days string along in sameness, and we glide through them like ghosts in a fog. We’re haunted by our own inertia and the resolutions we made only a month ago.

The sky looks bruised. Our spirits rise and fall with the mercury. When it rains, we catch a heady whiff of damp earth and greenness surfacing. The bulbs next to the sidewalk push forward their promises. The trees bud with shy expectation. The fields are models of patience, biding their time.

I consider all of this as I wearily climb the stone steps to my house and put my key in the door. Beyond the gray, the chill, the fog, is something worth waiting for.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

February 7, 2006