no lamb, all lion

Never one of my favourite months, this March has been particularly brutal. Aside from a brief couple of days that actually exceeded seasonal temperatures, this March has been bookended by cold, ice and never-ending snow. No, not just bookended: the whole damn bookshelf is spilling over with winter. The lambs didn't even bother to show up.

March is also a month that is permanently coloured in loss. Thirteen years ago this month, the Spousal Unit and I both lost our fathers, a mere two and a half weeks apart. We had barely unpacked from a trip halfway across the country to lay his father to rest, when we were hauling our funeral clothes back out of the closet and into suitcases. We were getting good at eulogies, too good.

Today is the actual anniversary of my own father's death. We joked that he would have been exceedingly annoyed that he missed dying on April Fool's Day by one stinking day. He would have considered that to be the very height of humour.

I am more than ready to kick this month to the curb, if I could find it under those endless snowbanks, that is.