Things I think about sometimes:
Who named the months in the order they’re in? What would things look like if we only had ten months like September October November and December suggest? And if the months are in the right order, then why doesn’t our year start on the first of March?
But of course,if Janus is the god of doorways and beginnings, Then we should start in January, shouldn’t we?

I learned about Janus in a literature class I took once. We were reading a story–I believe by that title–and we were analyzing the meaning behind it. I don’t really remember much of the story, but Janus and January stuck with me.

Something about today made me think about August.
August is the month I associate most with some of my favorite summer immages: dry dusty attics, the smell and sounds of dirt and gravel on a quiet road, clear cool streams of water to soothe both throat and skin,scraped knees, drippy popcicles. . .

I wrote about August once before;
how it looks and feels like a gauzy haze,
how to me it is a month of muted colors
until
the sharp focus
of September’s fall.
Today is a day that feels open and fresh. It does not at all feel like winter, and what little snow we finally had has gone by now. I don’t know what it was that connected me.
January is a month of fresh starts and new beginnings; of crystalline snow, brilliant in the morning light.
August is a month of delicate lace and old memories.
It happened while I was in the kitchen.
We have a window above the sink and I could hear the kids outside. Perhaps it was my memories; friends, laughing and playing, while I was always a little apart; kids, laughing and playing outside, while I stood alone in my kitchen.
There is a hollow in the echoes of my childhood,
and there is something very lonely
about a clear
still
winter’s day.

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