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The Strange and Unnecessary Month of February
Long-lived, the dawn never misses an opportunity to paint the roses black. How difficult it is to understand our levity. How arduous the battle against my arrogance is. How appropriate it seems that February, a month that begins by ending, should come after a January that lasts 150342 days. In January the year begins, in December it ends, in March the sun comes out, and in August the beaches shine. But in February, what the hell happens in February? Nothing at all.
Cold and pallid February. Anticipation of spring. Crucible of time, intermingled afternoons by name of night. There is a social current, perhaps unstoppable, that clamors to eradicate the month of February, for being a month of sadness, of informative boredom, and a meaningless halftime. And it is true, February is only of any interest as a season of emotions, or as a chronicle of shady events.
I am often overcome by the memory of an aimless February, enraptured in the calendar, like a cat surprised by the flash of a torch. February and a spasmodic, almost cyclical, almost nautical sadness. A mourning as of departure to the sea. A brief kiss that does not close. A firm embrace that languishes. A slow song that speeds up. And José Alfredo Jiménez, perhaps, with a tequila-induced slumber.
February, a month of huge scarves on the girls, perfumed with aromas of hopeful dances, and black coats covering the Paul Newmans that sweep the streets in a hurry unbefitting the beauty of the moment. A month in which their beauty has to be sensed through a thousand layers, with streets heaving with walking onions fresh from the hairdresser, and sprayed with the perfumes they were given for Christmas. Little beauties.
February, yes. Month of prison without correspondence, of unalterable monotony on the other side of the window, of never-ending work days. The light falls, and so do they, fateful daggers of youth that break our souls, and fill with ashes old postcards of bygone days of light and smiles. Afternoons of golden beer, soccer, and the congregating of groups around ashtrays full of dreams. When all was still to be done and today, for some, time has expired. Painful realization: this is no longer my time.
Our smiles closed down, just as they closed the bars that were supposed to last forever. And we stay like this, icy, watching the incense rise between the damp walls of a church. It is impossible to color these days without the dense aroma of a winter wine. But sometimes neither Mencía nor Rioja. And then, only a prayer remains, soft, in a thread of voice lost among the animal noises of the streets. A prayer that says “let March come, let us drown in flowers.”
Sleepless month of wild contrast, between the cold and the extreme heat when entering and leaving the house, due to the utopia of the heaters, which behave like the perfect economic systems of a socialist, that is to say, imperfectly. Icy lounges to sit and think in, or not to think. And ambulances full of questions, equations of doubt, who is God calling to his party today.
February, what a month for a war. And for a sincere promise to see her again tomorrow, the girl, even if later the clock swallows up the emotions without warning, and blows out the lives, fleeting souls, at the feet of the good God. All the same, I won’t see her, you won’t see them. February is a month of disappointment and inaction. February is a month of exasperating indecision.
February, also like a scythe, dispassionately cutting out fairy tales, among the still colorful tremors of our youth. Memories are already forever a living smile, but with a grimace of the slowest sadness.
February. Groundhog Day in the United States is the feast of Our Lady of Candelaria in the Spanish-speaking world. Instead of staring at the groundhog, in my land we look toward the heavens: if it rains on the day of Our Lady of Candelaria, winter is over and you can plant your seed; if it is sunny, winter is still to worsen. You know what happened, don’t you? That’s right. It was a wonderful sunny day.
February is, in short, Rainer Maria Rilke, armed with a pad of loose verse, dipping the nib of his pen in my eye. And it is the month, so says popular wisdom, “when birds get married.” I was having coffee today on a terrace and there was next to my table a bunch of chirping sparrows doing strange dances around a female. Accuse me of perverting the scientific method if you wish, but I think that was not a wedding, but a bachelor party.
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