“I don’t want to die, said February. This is what is going to happen, said the girl who smelled of honey and smoke. She walked over to February and whispered something in his ear.I hope that works, said February. I really do.I’d do it for you. I’d change our entire story if I could, she said. Our story, said February, is all wrong.”

“Selah wished for a moat to protect their home from February. Selah wished for the end of February and endless sadness and the end to the missing children. Selah wished for the rebirth of town and flight. Selah wished for a scrap of something beautiful.”

“I dreamed you a field of running horses, Selah. For you, Bianca, a balloon the size of the sky, my body a kite you can throw into the air.Pull me by string and horse.Tell me everything won't end in death. That everything doesn't end with February. Dead wildflowers wrapped around a crying baby's throat.I've slowed my heartbeat to three beats a minute. I've redrawn the clouds into birds, a fox chasing them into the mountains.I'm going to move my hand today.I vomit ice cubes.There's a ghost next to me.Get up, Dad.(Light Boxes)”

“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.”

“I wanted to write you a story about magic. I wanted rabbits appearing from hats. I wanted balloons lifting you into the sky. It turned out to be nothing but sadness, war, heartbreak. You never saw it, but there’s a garden inside me.”

“When's your birthday?"I was taken aback by the question. "I don't like presents,"I said quickly, in case he got any ideas. "Who said anything about presents? I'm just asking for your date of birth.""Thirtieth of February," I said, throwing out the first date that came to mind.Xavier raised an eyebrow."Are you sure about that?"I panicked. What had I said wrong? I ran through the months in my head and realised my mistake. OOPS--there were only twenty-eight days in February! "I mean thirtieth of April," I corrected and grinned sheepishly.Xavier laughed. "You're the first person I've ever known to forget her own birthday.”

“The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine’s Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine’s Day on February’s shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.”