February was the last month of the ancient Roman calendar (pre-450 B.C.E.) and was named for the Roman feasts of purification, which were held on the ides (13th) of the month. The word itself comes from the "Latin februarius mensis "month of purification," from februare "to purify," from februa "purifications, expiatory rites" (plural of februum "means of purification, expiatory offerings")."
February is the month of my father's birthday and my brother's birthday. Both of them are, like me, Aquarius -- but that's where the similarities end.
It's also the month in which, long ago in 2007, I got married. I was 22. I was very young. Looking back now it's hard to believe I was ever that young or that brave. I took no notice of the advice or worries of anyone else as my fiancée and I planned on taking care of the formalities at the courthouse in downtown Charlotte -- the city where I was born. I don't regret the decision to get married or any of the other decisions that accompanied it.
But our first February was in 2006. Eighteen years ago. There's a photo of us on Valentine's Day. I must have set up my digital camera (flash turned on) somewhere in the kitchen of the small apartment I shared with another guy. My future wife and I are standing in the "living room." I'm wearing a brown leather jacket and looking down at her, my hands framing her face (or at least that's how I remember it). Her hair is permed, she's white as ever but especially so with the glare of the flash. My hair is curly and chaotic and I'm a bit overweight. She's as much a nixie as ever.
By that same day a year later, my hair was close cropped and I'd lost some weight. I'll never forget, two days later on the day we got married, just how stunned I was when I saw her for the first time in the dress she'd be wearing. It was like meeting someone all over again.
Her dad had to help me with my necktie because I didn't yet know how to tie one. His world is now completely different, too. So many things are. Of course, my son wouldn't be born for another four years and then some.
Februaries have sped past. The bizarre confluence of cold and warm weather, bronchitis, allergies, and the last depths of winter. Valentine's Day and our anniversary melt into one another, forming a sort of bridge between themselves. It's an uncanny month: neither spring nor winter. I've run two marathons in February, our son was diagnosed with autism during February and my wife with kidney disease. I spent hours and hours in the cold at the Greyhound Station during February.
But I've also come back to February again and again, to the 16th. To her.
