Where The Rhythm Seems Lost

Thirty days hath September,

April, June and November.

All the rest have thirty-one

but February's the shortest one.

With 28 days most of the time,

until Leap year gives us twenty-nine.

I am not sure when I actually learned this short poem from my mother. I just remember knowing it most of my life. And I have used it in many ways over the years ~ to know the date to write on checks, to plan vacations, to find the 100th Day of School in my classroom, and to help my students learn the number of days in each month.

I remember thinking as a child ~ the first three lines have an arranged pattern of rhythm, a sense of completeness and  predictability of what sounds come next.

Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November.
All the rest of thirty-one.

These three lines were the easiest to memorize.  But the remaining three lines have always stumped me.  The rhythm of the poem seems to change in those last three lines. The words seem crowded.

Little did I know what a word picture this poem was to become for my life.

My February, as with the pulse of this childhood poem, is marked with syncopation rather than a predictable beat. The rhythm of its days has been modified and my focus is drawn to weaker sounds.

They are the sounds of mourning and groaning and loss.

For February, in its short twenty-eight days, marks the sudden death of my son, Scott, as well as the death of both my mother and father.

So, as each February comes around ~ like struggling to make the words of the poem conform to the rhythm of each line ~ I slow down and consider how best to experience the full weight of these losses and redeem the days to come.

I spend time in my storehouse of memories. I grieve what could have been. I give thanks that this one short month is not like the rest of the year. I rejoice in the hope and promise of a blessed reunion with my loved ones.