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.