The waves come and go. Sometimes we drown, sometimes we surf all the way to shore. Snow waxes and wanes across the island. February always seemed never ending, promising sunshine and the tiniest peeks of new sprouts but buried in freezing winds at every turn. They say today is the day Sylvia put her head in the oven but my oven is warmer than my bed by the window, how can I blame her for searching the reprieve?
Soon it will be March and all this will be behind us. Soon it will be March and all this will be a thing of the past, a strange mirage, a bad dream. My teeth hurt in the mornings but even the demons look smaller in daylight.
Leave the oven door closed, my dear. Another layer of clothes ought to do it.
Keep you warm till the ice melts again.
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