In the cold weather of a freshly arrived season, I find warmth in the embrace of a home. People call us hot tea, candy cane, and lovers—I call us forever pals, with souls intertwined.
If the cold air pricks my skin like tiny needles on a bare knee, the truth shocks like an unexpected tidal wave. I’m aware that I, more often than not, write like an exaggerator—but believe me when I say it almost feels like walking barefoot in a snowstorm. It’s a pain so quietly effortless it leaves you blue both inside and out.
Still, I trace the ice-covered cobblestone to see what’s there. Will I find the lukewarm remnants of soft-baked cookies I just made, or a few drops of hot chocolate? I search for the shards of our glass window, but no—everything is still intact, only fluttering.
Who would have thought that, of all things, brick-built walls don’t always hold when December draws near? Why does warmth melt anyway, and why do I have to learn that now? If cold is the hollow around the hug you loosely give, then white is the color of my face when the embrace loosens.
We’re safe and sound now, so maybe it’s just shock. I’m a fast learner, yet I rarely learn. It doesn’t come naturally to me that lullabies can be icy, or that being open means giving someone the ultimate sword to strike you—and hoping they won’t.
In this cover art of a sweet holiday moment, beneath the bittersweet nature of a cold, strong December, I just hope the breezes won’t severely damage my home. If it’s true, it’s true. If it holds, it holds.
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