I spent much of the cold New Jersey February moving snow from place to place. I watched the mercury rise ever so slightly and then plunge again, deeply. Every day, I chipped away at the ice on the shaded spots of the driveway. I wearily watched the weather apps for the next big snowfall. 

I spent many hours of the long, cold February pushing words around pages. I tapped on a keyboard and doodled with a ballpoint pen. I searched for coherent sentences in the shaded spots of my mind. I stared out the window at the low, lingering clouds.

I spent all of February away from social media. I had no interactions with the algorithm. I saw no posts from people I hardly know or know too well. I read no comments. I mostly avoided the shady side of humanity. I waited on lines by waiting in line. And sat at red lights by sitting at red lights. I passed my idle time mostly idly. Peacefully.

I spent a week shuffling back and forth between home and hospital visiting (she’s fine now) my mother. Sitting in a small room with a small tv, watching the IV drip dripping. As she stayed mostly still, a patiently healing patient. We watched the snow falling outside the bay window, covering the cars on top of the parking deck. 

I spent a weekend wondering about my stranded daughter’s return, as she waited out the bomb-cyclone-blizzard in a warmer, sunnier climate. I watched a dozen or so free-trial art house films on a streaming service she had signed up for before leaving. When she couldn’t/didnt cancel the subscription on time, I watched more and more. 

I was sitting still on my couch, while a war was breaking out, in all of its epic fury. As bombs were flying through the air in some faraway place oversees, I heard William Kentridge, in my living room say, a ‘table is also a much abused tree. It’s the memory of a tree.  It’s also a premonition of the fire, the smoke, and the ash.’ 

I felt/feel those words deep in my soul, now that March is here. March is here, holding within itself February, and every memory of February, and every memory that February held. March is here, holding every premonition of everything that will possibly become memory-filled April, May and June. 

Time…

March is on.