Mother’s Day makes for many, many feelings. Throw a global pandemic into the mix, and we’re all tiny children in a feely field of goo.
When we are afraid, may we be turned into love. When we are excruciatingly squirrelly, may we be turned into love. When the urge to dance to Pitbull’s song about coronavirus overcomes us,* may we be turned into love.
Even now, especially now, life is doing what it does best. It’s going on.
This, my dears, was no ordinary February. This was the big one.
Whereas: January has ended. Whereas: February is a mini-month, even when it leaps. Resolved: Winter is on the run.