I lie down. The world is full of crack and sparkle. The sound of laughter.
February is an imp, a trickster. She is dancing over my body with her tiny feet. “I cannot wait to open my presents,” she declares. “ I want them all NOW.”
February tears the covers off and laughs and claps and dances with delight. “Oh beauty. Oh riches.” Everything is a present to her. She opens everything.
“You,” she says, “sometimes you forget. Life is a celebration. But sometimes all you see is impossibility. Cold and gray. You stop. You forget to laugh and dance. You think: Oh I can’t. Oh it’s cold.” She is knocking me on my forehead, “Hey you in there – this is the party. This. This. THIS.”