The poet T.S. Eliot said April was the cruelest month, but the distinction belongs to February.
Next to January, its almost equally awful predecessor, it’s the bitterest month of the year. In the U.S. we saw icy temperatures freeze the Northeast, blizzards wallop the Plains, and floods deluge California.
At least in January, the pretense of New Year’s resolutions remains and snow is still white. By the month after, most of us have swapped the treadmill for a mug of spiked cider at the end of a long day.
Margaret Atwood, of The Handmaid’s Tale fame, wrote a poem called “February” that perfectly encapsulates the month’s fatigue.
“February,” she wrote, is the “month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre.” The poem describes the loneliness of the speaker, who has no one but her cat for company.
Winter isn’t made for much activity: It’s about eating fatty foods and watching hockey and letting your cat climb in bed and sit on your face. At least, that’s how Atwood characterizes it, and the feeling of melancholy she exudes feels universal.
“I think dire thoughts,” the speaker says, “and lust for French fries with a splash of vinegar.” Same.
After jumping on the bed, the cat meanders about with his musty cat food breath. Like February, he sticks around a little too long. In the end the speaker pushes him off her. “You’re the life principle, more or less,” she says, “so get going on a little optimism around here.”
When the month ends, there may not be more to be optimistic about. But the cat’s been pushed away, and our hemisphere is tilting toward the sun. At least there’s the hint of spring.
