Whoever thought to limit February to only 28 days was a great humanitarian. Better were it 10.

Two years ago, my brother died. February 21, 2015: the most dismal date in my life. Two days before that, the water main under our front yard froze. Our pipes burst.

This year, people near and dear to me have moved far away. My world has gotten smaller. Donald Trump is the Occupant of the White House and has awakened the Ignoranti. And a dear golden retriever, Chance, is being put down today because of an incurable disease. He’s 10.

It should be obvious from Valentine’s Day that February is made for heartbreak. Starting from childhood, we pass out Valentines indiscriminately to classmates. But there’s always the kids who got fewer than the rest. They sit in sadness, trying not to be noticed.

Spring: I’m waiting. Do come.