Finding February

I hate February. It is the most dismal of times. White-gray skies and cold are its only features. Even its teasing of springtime blumming is a cover up. February is the harbinger of death. I know this is true because on a cold gray mid-February day, seven years ago, came the news of my father's terminal illness.
We had suspected for some time that what ever was wrong with Dad was not something curable. He had always maintained an active life even into his seventies but this winter had hit him pretty hard. A cough that wouldn't go away, followed by fatigue so sever he wouldn't or couldn't dress for the day. Eventually he had to be hospitalized and the tests confirmed our worst and our unspoken fear. Cancer. The diagnoses came too late for any type of treatment to have effect. There was nothing to do but bring him home and wait for the inevitable.
When Dad first came home there was an air of denial surrounding everyone whom came to visit him. They talked to him as if he would be arou...