March

By Marissa Rotolo

Hazel / @hazalbalci via Pinterest

The month of March started with a brunch that unknowingly caused a ripple effect so unintentional, like a stone that keeps skipping long after you've stopped watching it. Brunch was followed by yet another flare of perioral dermatitis and a trip to Florida to celebrate my sister's 25th birthday. A case of mono that came and went. By the middle of March, I said a tearful goodbye to a job that started just as tearfully; in the beginning, they were tears of dread. I capped off the month as a publicist in the city, had a French dinner with Charlotte, and found a crumpled diary entry from 2015 professing my love for Taylor Swift. Then it was April.

People always talk about how February is the Monday of the year: gray, static, bone-dry. While I believe that to be somewhat true, there is something so deeply transitional about the month of March. Every year, the month starts in winter coats backdropped with holiday lights and gray slush. It always ends a bit lighter; snow turns to rain, jackets turn to vests, friendships shift, jobs end. Before you realize it, you've crossed into a different season, and not just the one on the calendar.

I don't think anyone remembers March in real time. It always seems more ordinary than it ends up being. February and April are missing incredible context without March. It's a month built for loose ends, notice periods, birthdays, and plans that don't look like they'll matter until they do. By the time it makes sense, it's already April.

March rarely feels memorable; it just ends up being important.

There was nothing groundbreaking about March. No big climax that defined my year, no wild realizations that will join my compilation of lessons I've learned in my 20s. It just kept moving the needle behind my back, so soft I didn't realize it until April.