Snow On My Skin

When I was a little girl, for the first time, I saw snow. it fell down as a soft twinkle as if curious about the Southern air, chilled to an unfamiliar, perfect degree. As a girl so accustomed to the immense Louisianan heat, the cold was a pleasant and unexpected present. The ice clung to the window as it gently fell from the sky. In the warmth of the car, I could still smell the lingering scent of gingerbread on my breath. In my right hand I gripped a writing utensil. Whether it was a pen or pencil I cannot remember for whatever I was scribbling was quickly forgotten and I laid the pencil on the journal propped on my lap and reached over one of my siblings to stick my hand out. Snow on my skin. I would never do the immense beauty of snowflakes justice yet I will attempt a description: gentle, tiny crystals of ice attached to pollen that bring forth flowers when Nature wakes up again. Tiny crystals made up of tiny crystals of imperfect symmetry and incredible diversity. Ice on my skin. Each flake landing on my skin feels like a kindhearted kiss.

The fairytale lights decorating the streets of Lake Charles amplified the enchanted glow of a childhood memory encased and held dear like a shard of sunlight burrowed brightly within a sheet of ice. It’s all shades of dim gold and grey, a soft blue doesn’t go unnoticed.

It is frigid, caries the safety of warmth, and the celebrates perfect imperfections all at once.

This is exactly as I remember it and exactly as it will remain as I go year after snowless year yearning for another indulgent winter.

Snow on my skin. I will always pine for this.

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I beg you to take some time out of your day today to make a hot cocoa and enjoy this winter footage from Pippi Longstocking (1975) in celebration of this year’s winter solstice (which was yesterday).

Merry wintering,

Yulani Sann