After overcoming the hardships of raising four children as a single parent, Helen’s strength and calculated positivity fool everyone into believing that she’s pushed through the paralyzing grief of losing her spouse. But in private, Helen has obsessively maintained a powerful connection to her deceased husband. When Helen’s son unexpectedly returns home with life-changing news, her secret world is irrevocably shaken, and Helen is quickly forced to come to terms with her inability to lay the past to rest.
An unforgettable glimpse into the complex love and cauterizing grief that run through all of our lives, February tenderly investigates how memory knits together the past and present, and pinpoints the very human need to always imagine a future, no matter how fragile.
foolish. He was silent for a while and Helen didn’t speak either. She could see through her window, over the back fence, the deep yellow square of light from her neighbour’s kitchen. The neighbour — she was some kind of actress — was at the sink washing dishes. Helen watched her putting plates in the rack. Then a man was standing beside her. The actress turned from the sink and she and the man spoke. Not long, just a few words. The woman left the sink and followed the man into the dark hall
becoming maudlin or clichéd. But Moore seems to understand this very human facility, describing the unconscious ways we sometimes try to avoid feeling overwhelmed by it . . . Moore shows how life’s everyday tasks and encounters create a comforting continuity that eventually wears down emotional pain to allow forward movement . . . You’ll be surprised at this novel’s ability to uplift.” — National Post “Soaring.” — Chatelaine “A
woman . . . But that’s what [ February ] is about: a perfectly ordinary woman whose life is profoundly changed by an extraordinary event. This is a marvellous book.” — Winnipeg Free Press “Luminous.” — More “Moore pens another triumph . . . emotional tension, coupled with an acute eye for regional setting and dialect, has long been a hallmark of Moore’s work . . . the hauntingly beautiful
socks were soaked inside his shoes. What he didn’t feel was regret or sadness. He felt exhilarated. He had loved Sophie; or he had enjoyed her cooking and the dope she grew in her bedroom closet. A big closet with grow lights. The dense green stink and tickling leaves when you stepped inside. The bushes were almost as tall as she was and half a joint could knock you silly. She had a way of rubbing the leaves and then bringing her fingers to her nose to smell them that he found
or a shame belonging to no one, knocking against everything in its path. His curses were an incantation against too much humility and the prayers pleaded with the Virgin to make the mosquitoes go away. Then the earth revved and thrummed. He jumped back into the ditch. He lay down flat with the lupins trembling over him. The sirens were loud, even at a distance, baritone whoops that scaled up to clear metallic bleats. The hoops of hollow, tin-bright noise overlapped and the torrent of