Empty February

It's probably not a secret that I don't like February.  I never have; it's the darkest, bleakest, most grating month of the winter - considering it's the shortest month of the year, it's slightly ironic. But I don't like it.  And I've grown to detest it even more since 2015, when I received the news of my ex-girlfriend's death.  Now I just hate it because I'm reminded of it.  Adding insult to injury, I had forgotten that the last time she and I ever spoke to one another was on Valentine's Day, 1994.  

It was a wet, grey day - we had been going through a protracted split since Christmas '93, but there were moments in the last weeks of January that hinted of a slow/possible reconciliation.  Yet, I knew it couldn't be - otherwise, we'd only continue hurting one another and being unhappy - not just together, but with ourselves. So when we had that two-hour "what are you doing?" conversation, I knew there had to be a cap on it.  I'd sent her a dozen roses, which I'd never done, just to make myself feel better, since it was the first time in 8 years that I was alone on Valentine's Day.  And when it was time to go, I said something to her that I'd never said before. Before we hung up the phone, I said "goodbye, Susan - take care of yourself." And I knew.

Now it's five years that she's gone and I wish she was still here, enjoying her life.  I didn't know her at all, anymore - but I just wish she was still here.