The Long and Short of It
Ironic, isn’t it? February is our shortest month, but it felt, at least to me anyway, like the longest. Now I admit that some of that was self-inflicted: I chose to get a new knee in January so I could recuperate in February when there’s nothing better to do. I stocked up on good books and every night, my wife and I went to Italy to watch the Olympics. The Games were a worthy pasateimpo; drama and pathos, fortitude and resilience, even an occasional dollop of redemption to remind us of our own humanity. Plus, the couch was comfy, the fireplace crackling. the ice pack cold; I felt as though I were a papa bear hibernating in my cozy den.
But of course, the world continued to turn, and in its turning, we were socked with a couple of doozy snow storms that shoved the neighborhood back into the Ice Age. Yes, I felt some remorse when my wife went out to shovel snow or bring in logs from the wood pile while I lay on the couch telling myself that healing is a process that can’t be hurried and thankful for the miracle relief of Advil every six hours. (I did not indulge in any of the stronger stuff that has a such a bad rap.) And as the days went on and the Olympic flame began to flicker, I let myself believe that spring was maybe really around the corner.
But then there was another snow storm—admittedly of lesser intensity—but nevertheless a reminder that we are still prisoners in nature’s dank jail. The merchants in town sang a dreary tune because no one was out shopping, and the days, although a bit longer, seemed endlessly (as my Scottish ancestors used to say) “dreich,” Still, I let myself believe that those few extra minutes of daily light were not simply a gift from Persephone, Greek goddess of spring, but also the light one sees near the end of a long, dark tunnel. I would make it to March.
But then, with only a day or two of ammunition left in February’s arsenal, I woke up to the news that we and our Israeli allies had attacked Iran. Negotiations had apparently failed and we had opted for the harder stuff. Staccato images on television, reports of air strikes and counter-strikes, and soon enough, reports that the Ayatollah, Iran’s Supreme Leader, had been killed; there were military and civilian casualties, too. I didn’t know whom or what to believe. All of a sudden, we were embroiled in yet another Middle East mess and it was difficult to know if this was a Quixotic cause or just another episode of “Wag the Dog.” (Between you and me, it’s far more the latter.) And all those pesky Constitutional questions: isn’t it Congress’ job to declare war? Is there a long-term strategy in place or is this just another late-night White House diversionary impulse? And what does ‘regime change’ actually mean when no one has a clue about who or what will come next?
Now, February is over the hill, we’re a few days into March, and all these questions still linger. My knee is better. My physical therapist thinks I’m on, maybe even ahead, of schedule. I’ve resumed some of my responsibility for household chores. But the memory of this cruel February stays with me like a bad hangover. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for spring, the season of hope.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives with his wife Kat Conley on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The People Game,” is available in bookstores and on Amazon and other platforms. His website is musingjamie.net.
