There is something right about these flowers arriving early,
out-of-place in the cold, unbothered by propriety.
My mother was born in February (the month of restraint, apparently). Its flower is the violet:
If violets mean blooming before you learn better, then maybe they’ve got her right after all.
modest, innocent, shy— which is funny, honestly. She was brassy. She said what she thought.
They are now where I find her:
I see them and think of a woman who never pretended she was small, who died in debt but rich in stories, arguments, apologies, and humor.
She married four men and meant it each time. She could scorch a room with a look, then fill it again with laughter.
She was not modest. She was not careful. She was not tidy with love, or money, or the truth.
Violets turn up small, obedient— as if February’s trying to insist on good behavior.
And yet…
She was bright purple in dark winter, color before spring.
She was a violet February, whether it behaved or not.•
Winter 2026
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