There it is, way back in the fridge, hidden behind the ginger ale. The last eggnog of the season. I check the expiration date, open it gingerly, and sniff. Hmm. Smells OK. I take a tremulous sip, reckless, and savor the creamy taste of Christmas, Oh, I wish it were not over so soon. I need its music, its color, its hope. This wintry month drags on at a snail’s pace – still two days to go until I can say the word “February” in the present tense. It can be our worst month for snow, but it’s mercifully short and close to March, a word that connotes kites floating in gentle breezes, perhaps a crocus or two, a swelling bud on a tree branch. Willows brightening. Daylight stretching out.
Move on, I say to myself. Brace yourself for the next snowstorm, the next biting wind. To everything there is a season…
