Months for me are usually an easy ride. 28 to 31 days, it passes rather quickly.
But years are the long snakes that drag unpleasant months, we don’t want to remember and recall. In each year, there is an unforgivable month, snake’s mouth that just swallows all of your energy, time, existence and you end up wondering: “Life has a party on his own and I’m not even invited!”
I have that one particular year, when in March everything changed for me. In my country we call March Baba Marta (Granny Marta) and yes! March is a capricious, unstable, sometimes sleepy, sometimes rainy, rarely shiny: like an old grandmother who growls around trying to find her cane.
Through the window I could see the remnants of snow, her silver hair spread across the park. Small snowdrops, random teeth in that deceiving smile, were trying to turn their clumsy heads towards sporadic Sun.
That March wasn’t only the beginning of spring. It was suppose to be the beginning of new life for me. Instead, March brought the cruelty of the unknown, acridity of the uncertainty. Baba Marta was not in the mood.
April came like a young, playful girl, with the greenest eyes I ever saw; colorful dress wrapped her blooming body; teasing me, inviting me to join her; wanting me to forget awful Baba Marta.
Strangely enough, as the Sky was arranging tender clouds and Sun began to caress my skin, all I could think of is how warm was behind the cold, icy February walls.