members, who grabbed Thaddeusâs shoulder and turned him around.
Thaddeus faced the Solution, holding his basket of apples tight against his chest.
Weâre starting a rebellion, a war, said a yellow bird mask, against February and what it stands for.
A war, repeated Thaddeus.
Yes, a war, a war, a war, the Solution repeated.
An orange bird mask continued, Weâre sick of February, who we believe is responsible not only for a season of endless gray and snow but the end of flight.
A blue bird mask lurched forward and placed a square of parchment in Thaddeusâs coat pocket. He knocked one of Thaddeusâs apples out of the basket and into a pile of snow.
Remember us, said the Solution.
And they disbanded, walking, dreaming of flying, in separate directions.
Professor
At the entrance to our town stands the Peter statue. Peter initiated the bird migration. This led to the age of flight, which is a rare time of recorded joy for our town. The sky was a land of balloon travel, bird flight patterns and flying-machine experiments. The afternoons were hot, the evenings cool when we went to the top of the hill to watch the nightly umbrella effect. We walked barefoot through streams. The children exploded in piles of corduroy leaves. We named the changes in weather Spring, Summer, Fall and February.
Peter believed in the life of flight even when he was bound with twine to his balloon by the priests and sent to a deadly altitude. Peter believed that the month of February should be eliminated, that it was possible to move clouds with long poles and extend the seasons of Spring and Summer. He said it could be taken further, that utopia included a town that knew only June and July. He wrote on archived parchment that if February were allowed to expand, it would infest our moods and kidnap our children.
Thaddeus
The Solution came to my window last night. They had on their bird masks and black top hats. They wore a single brown scarf around their necks. I said I understood the need to rebel and protect our town against February. I reminded them of the tactics used last year.
Most important, they said, think of your daughter, Bianca.
I saw that some snow had gathered in a corner on the ceiling. I grabbed a broom to sweep it away.
When I turned back around, the Solution was walking away into the snowfall. It looked like they were skipping.
I closed my eyes. I imagined Selah and Bianca in a canoe so narrow they had to lie down with their arms folded on their stomachs, their heads at opposite ends, their toes touching. I dreamed two miniature suns. I set one each upon their foreheads. I dreamed a waterfall and a calm lake of my arms below to catch them.
Bianca
I know it was important to get up, but my body felt too heavy. My parents stood next to my bed and spoke slowly and moved slower. They said their bladders were being filled with lead and soon it would rise into their chests. My father smiled and ran in place, a tactic used against February last year, but I could see tears in his eyes, and then he stopped, shoulders slouched forward, head near his knees. Lead poured from his mouth.
My parents climbed into bed with me. The smell of mint made my stomach hurt. They held me and told me everything would be fine, that sadness would rise from our bones and evaporate in sunlight the way morning fog burned off the river in summer. My mother rubbed the kites on my hands and arms and told me to think of my lungs as balloons.
I just want to feel safe, I said.
Thaddeus
The Professor told us that to protect Bianca we should feed her mint leaves. In the rare warm months, we grew as much as we could, taking precious crop space to harvest huge bushels of mint we use in the nightly tea, bathwater and
Â
SELAHâS MINT SOUP
8 cups chicken stock
2 cups mint leaves
3 large eggs
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon black pepper
At night Selah rubs mint leaves into my beard and pats my lips dry with mint leaves. I braid mint
Thaddeus faced the Solution, holding his basket of apples tight against his chest.
Weâre starting a rebellion, a war, said a yellow bird mask, against February and what it stands for.
A war, repeated Thaddeus.
Yes, a war, a war, a war, the Solution repeated.
An orange bird mask continued, Weâre sick of February, who we believe is responsible not only for a season of endless gray and snow but the end of flight.
A blue bird mask lurched forward and placed a square of parchment in Thaddeusâs coat pocket. He knocked one of Thaddeusâs apples out of the basket and into a pile of snow.
Remember us, said the Solution.
And they disbanded, walking, dreaming of flying, in separate directions.
Professor
At the entrance to our town stands the Peter statue. Peter initiated the bird migration. This led to the age of flight, which is a rare time of recorded joy for our town. The sky was a land of balloon travel, bird flight patterns and flying-machine experiments. The afternoons were hot, the evenings cool when we went to the top of the hill to watch the nightly umbrella effect. We walked barefoot through streams. The children exploded in piles of corduroy leaves. We named the changes in weather Spring, Summer, Fall and February.
Peter believed in the life of flight even when he was bound with twine to his balloon by the priests and sent to a deadly altitude. Peter believed that the month of February should be eliminated, that it was possible to move clouds with long poles and extend the seasons of Spring and Summer. He said it could be taken further, that utopia included a town that knew only June and July. He wrote on archived parchment that if February were allowed to expand, it would infest our moods and kidnap our children.
Thaddeus
The Solution came to my window last night. They had on their bird masks and black top hats. They wore a single brown scarf around their necks. I said I understood the need to rebel and protect our town against February. I reminded them of the tactics used last year.
Most important, they said, think of your daughter, Bianca.
I saw that some snow had gathered in a corner on the ceiling. I grabbed a broom to sweep it away.
When I turned back around, the Solution was walking away into the snowfall. It looked like they were skipping.
I closed my eyes. I imagined Selah and Bianca in a canoe so narrow they had to lie down with their arms folded on their stomachs, their heads at opposite ends, their toes touching. I dreamed two miniature suns. I set one each upon their foreheads. I dreamed a waterfall and a calm lake of my arms below to catch them.
Bianca
I know it was important to get up, but my body felt too heavy. My parents stood next to my bed and spoke slowly and moved slower. They said their bladders were being filled with lead and soon it would rise into their chests. My father smiled and ran in place, a tactic used against February last year, but I could see tears in his eyes, and then he stopped, shoulders slouched forward, head near his knees. Lead poured from his mouth.
My parents climbed into bed with me. The smell of mint made my stomach hurt. They held me and told me everything would be fine, that sadness would rise from our bones and evaporate in sunlight the way morning fog burned off the river in summer. My mother rubbed the kites on my hands and arms and told me to think of my lungs as balloons.
I just want to feel safe, I said.
Thaddeus
The Professor told us that to protect Bianca we should feed her mint leaves. In the rare warm months, we grew as much as we could, taking precious crop space to harvest huge bushels of mint we use in the nightly tea, bathwater and
Â
SELAHâS MINT SOUP
8 cups chicken stock
2 cups mint leaves
3 large eggs
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon black pepper
At night Selah rubs mint leaves into my beard and pats my lips dry with mint leaves. I braid mint
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