March

I’ve never equated the month of March to the verb by the same name. Until now.

March holds the promise of spring. In the Midwest, March is the bringer of buds, guiding our eyes up from the blanket of fallen leaves to the outstretched branches that are yawning into life. It may snow yet, but the cold air has undertones of warmth instead of the fall’s warning of chill. March is sunshine and puddles and shedding layers and yard work and the hopeful soundtrack of birds grateful to be singing again after a silent winter.

But this month – this unifying time in which we all dwell regardless of address – this is not my March. The birds still sing, but it is in consolation and companionship, as they seem to know both are lacking. This March we are asked to fall in line instead of frolic.

This March, we march.

We march together, alone. We are unified in isolation, our greatest act being inaction. This march is a study in contrasts, and that study brings us closer to confusion than clarity. We believe things will return to normal, but in the last few weeks normal has shifted in a way that has us all longing to go back to someplace we never were. So we march on, not because we have all agreed on getting “there”…but because we all agree we cannot stay here.