Dear Winter,
I hate you. I hate the sub-zero breeze that splinters icicle daggers across my cheeks. The frostbite that terrorizes my fingertips even beneath the comfort of my mittens. The glacial mounds of snow that soak my legs into shivering eternally. You are my archnemesis.
But, really, deep down in my heart, under the sheaths of ice imposed by your polar blizzards, I have a confession—I love you.
It wasn’t that way before: I remember that frigid day I walked into the forest, beanie pulled over my ears, scarf wrapped around my neck, and overcoat buttoned across my chest. Each step would leave a deep imprint in the ground. Whenever I let out a breath, I’d be greeted by a wisp of smoke, maybe from an invisible dragon. The snow-powdered trees—the ice giants—towering over taunted me with dangling crystals as they let speckled flakes flutter onto my shoulders. Every cool draft that slipped underneath my scarf sent chills that lifted goosebumps along my arms. I couldn’t stand you at all.
I’d heard stories of your wrath, of what you could do to unsuspecting wanderers—oh, the nightmares I encountered every night as you wailed like a banshee with howling winds. Is it true that you blacked out an entire town? Sent shards of lumber shooting into the sides of houses? Is it real that you froze a man’s fingers beyond saving? Turned his companion dog’s ardent barks into mere whines? Oh, how evil I thought you were.
But the deeper I tread into the frosty forest, the less facinorous and more fantastical I found you. As wisps of snow melted into the icy lake, I could see ducks swimming in a steady line, like graceful ballerinas pirouetting across the water as their stage. When I redirected my gaze along the ground to watch my step, I was surprised by pristine deer tracks; for several yards I followed the little Pac-Man shaped prints until they led to foliage I’d never squeeze past. Though I had to abandon my investigation, I came across another lake. Everything felt frozen in place—complete silence, no flowing stream, only blissfully chill air. If I hadn’t looked any closer, I would’ve missed your wonderful art entirely, Winter.
Still, I had trouble seeing you clearly through the rose-colored glasses. The misery, the agony—the torture of every sore throat and plegm-ish cough was an unbearable battle come every December. I’d go to sleep with my nose stuffed and wake up in the most horrible throes of rhinorrhea. My head would pang with aches like the ones I get from drinking an Icee; I’d wager hundreds that you injected icicles directly into me. How could I possibly forgive you for these dreadful grievances?
Even so, my mind went blank when I was in that forest. I discovered lamppost-looking trees decorated with shiny icicles rather than light bulbs. And suddenly, something urged me to swing around one, dancing and singing in the snow. No longer did my fingertips taste the impending frostbite, nor did I pay any attention to the pins and needles that poked at my cheeks. The blizzard that had seemingly trapped me turned into my second home (albeit with no cozy fireplaces to be found). Everywhere I turned I discovered a blank canvas for snow angels and anything I wanted to create with my imagination.
And even though I returned to my own brick home and slid beneath my bedsheets with a violent cold, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d be back out again—because, Winter, I love you.