Today (in February)

by Jen Schneider
                                                           

The sun rose early – a minute earlier than yesterday and two minutes earlier than the day before. Time is funny that way. Amidst natural rotations, solitary minutes stack like buckwheat flapjacks and Goodwill denim until, out of the ocean blue, a life – sometimes more, sometimes less, than a lifetime – concludes. Palms cupped. Cupboard bare. The EKG flatlines. A nurse nods, “It’s time.” Time mostly passes without notice, like today, until today. Just another ordinary February day. Then, it’s gone. Eyes closed. Winds whisper. I yawn involuntarily.  

My great-grandfather had warned that yawns were contagious. At the time, I felt admonition was more threat than knowledge. Now it’s just another moment of conversation. A February memory – as much about the past as the present. I wonder whether the roosters understand. Morning mayhem more than human instinct. The sun winks. A small mouse scampers. I blink. 

A swath of warmth on a cold February day. Brighter than today. No matter that the Farmer’s Almanac warned otherwise. Even February can feel warm sometimes. Sometimes I wake up not recognizing the day. Somedays, I linger longer in the sun’s shade than I should. I don’t know if I’m Here. Or There. The small pockets of air between Then and Now blur. While Charlotte asked Wilbur about life, I inquired – What’s a day.

I wonder if the groundhog understands time. And that on a February day the critter’s small world becomes an unlikely stage. What does it matter, anyway. Traditions are as much of today as yesterday. I wonder about Punxsutawney Phil’s rightful name. Men in black top hats perform, pronounce, then pounce without shame.

“What day is it,” I ask friends and colleagues. “Should I worry?” They reply with words of wisdom and pondering wrapped of knotted brows and mostly silent fury. “Maybe.” I shrug. I’m like that. Some days. My skin is sewn of queries. My knuckles twisted like quandaries. 

February is the shortest month for good reasons, some say with no explanation. Leaps and longing simmer. Sun fall extends a hand. A handful of flakes flutter on the other side of the window. Squirrels squander acorns. Hunger no longer matters. Some say worry is a part of the human condition.

My teacher colleagues ask questions to parse my predicament – “Do you mean as a noun or verb?” Administrators remind me to document every concern. Mostly they continue to consume. The day. Coffee with caffeine. Emails and emotions are bared on long sleeves. February is like that. Not all winds carry news. Some burp nothing more than reminders. Everyone’s on the clock. Ambulance squads rotate. School buses sleep in concrete lots. Graveyard keepers sweep in fifteen-minute blocks. Even the rabbi turns off email at five. 

Others say nothing. Their brown, black, and blue eyes blink but focus on other things. It’s February – as predictable as time. Full of snow and snow droughts. Footballs and Oscars.  Political bouts. All sides of the Atlantic know how to waltz. Jerry Blavat sleeps. Neil Peart. David Crosby. What’s the rush, I think. For one more day. Another way. February is like that.  

Sunrise and sunset both signs and shades. Of closing time. Of pinks and blues. A blend of warblers in cunning corners. I consume the sun at every hour. Breakfast neither a main course nor off course. Oatmeal with blueberries spooned in a ceramic bowl. A glass of orange juice. My step less February more January. Perhaps March. I march through motions both routine and regular. Catch clips and chirps of conversation. The neighbors talk more when the sun smiles.

Even if the conversation doesn’t dial. Rotary phones have more memory than matter. I stretch then dial numbers no longer on my cell – by memory. February’s good for that. Like denim and strawberry patches. Mugs of gin. Games of gin rummy. Visits with visionaries no longer old. Hearts with sold (and old) souls. The cemetery also runs on a budget. All ledgers seek balance. All plots plotted. Sewn of frayed fibers. Fraught of Februarys. February is like that. 

The ground is cold. I visit cemetery plots and mark occasions. Birthdays with everything bagels. Sanka roast and whole wheat toast. I toast and ponder questions never asked. Why Sanka and not Cola? Why hand sewn knots and not satin? Why checkers and not chess? Why gingham and not plaid in your overcoat? Why faux fur but only purebred honey? Consumption curiously layered; I think. I watch mourning doves flock. Bogged down in the regular. A February routine. Much more than just another manic Monday. 

Monarch migrations as much routine as instinct. The sun rose early today and stayed high. Even as a cold front moved in. Another 100-year climate event. Another deep freeze. Worry less heavy is natural lights. A bright sky. Today – like and unlike any other. Queries not yet queued for consumption on another extraordinary ordinary February day. Ready. Set. Play.

1.     Define think. Define worry. Are they more similar than different?

2.     Define wonder. Define blink. Are they more different than similar?

3.     Define spell. When scrambled, what does February spell?

4.     What is the word for when dawn meets dusk?

5.     Define short. Define shortest. Can a month be either?

6.     Which of the following is least like the others. Shortest. Shortcoming. Shortfall. Sure thing.

7.     How many degrees (Fahrenheit/Celsius, Dawn/Dusk, Angled/Geometry) separate the ordinary  from the ordinary?

8.     Define light. Define teach. Are they more similar than different?

9.     Is it the job of the teacher to raise curtains or to raise children that think?

10.   If all the world’s a stage whose watching? And is wondering natural?

11.   Do birds blink, even in a snowless February? 

12.   Define routine. Define instinct. Are they more different than similar? 

13.   Define tradition. Define conviction. Are they more similar than different?

14.   What word is missing from the following list? Tradition. Expectation. Recollection. Today.

15.   Which of the following is least like the others? Condition. Conditional. Conditioning. Contradiction.

16.  Which of the following is least like the others? Leap. Linger. Longer. Lengthen. Lengthy. 

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Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Her most recent collection, 14 (Plus) Reasons Why published with free lines press, is now available.