She likes December.

She has always thought of December as tough but gentle.  He is like a scheduled spring clean, always there in the ugliest times of the year, at the end of it when all energy is almost used up and everything's in a mess.  He's a quiet one, gently taking in all her complaints and miseries of unfulfilled dreams.  He's a gentle one, quietly taking in bigger dreams for a newer year.  He will help pick her up from her mistakes, patch up her confidence, polish her trophies and glories, and then pack her bags for a new beginning.  And he will pack in a bit of his own love, praying it will be of use when circumstances arise in the unknown year.  He will be by her side for thirty-one days and thirty-one nights, to the end.  He will be the one who understands her the most, because when she was most vulnerable, he was the one who was there.  He gave her time because he knew she needed it, thirty-one days to be ready again for new challenges to come.

It was time enough to fall in love, thirty-one days, but December knew when to let go, when she needed him no more.  He knew she had other choices; for instance, January has always been interesting, brave and charming, always the first to come out and fight the new year.  Maybe she'd be more happy with the others.  December hadn't much self esteem, you see, he always came last in school where they taught the calendar.

But she likes December, especially the first of December, when they always meet again, finally, after one whole year.  To her, it was like a new chance, a new reason to look forward to an uncertainty.