Winter Reflections

Dear Son,

I remember the long winter days in Connecticut. As a child, I loved them. Waking up to see snow falling in fluffy, white flakes like little bits of cotton floating down from the sky and coating the yard, watching my breath frost the window and pressing my nose against the cold glass to get a better look outside, feeling the warmth of the old cast iron heater against my hands after I came in from playing in the snow, sipping hot chocolate in an oversized mug, the thrill of missing a day of school and getting to stay home, enjoying the winter wonderland. Christmas was always the best. Our neighbor had a pond in his backyard and when it froze over he would decorate it with a bunch of Christmas lights, deer, angels, all glowing in the night to create a fairytale scene on the pond. As I got older, I played less and shoveled more. The cold irritated me, freezing me from the outside in on my short, half-mile walk to school. In college, my car slipped on some ice and I narrowly avoided death. My love for winter came to an abrupt halt, one that caused me to move halfway down the coast to South Carolina.

Winters in South Carolina were mild, rarely dipping below freezing. I loved it. I could still go to the beach in a t-shirt and shorts in November, sometimes even December. There was no snow, no ice, no blizzards, just sun. It got cold enough still to cozy up by the fireplace, and sometimes the duck pond behind my apartment even froze, but then a couple of hours later I’d look out and see the bonded ducks floating by serenely, together in pairs, protected from the cold by their downy feathers and inner heat exchange systems, the surface of the pond melted. It was there, in South Carolina, that I had my first child, you. Your first winter we had a freak snowstorm, more like ice, about a half-inch. We brought you outside, eager to show you the snow, knowing your one-year-old curiosity would be peaked, but were disappointed to find the snow was too hard, packed down tight, not light and fluffy, not snow you play with.

We moved to Tennessee for work, not a place I was thrilled to go to, but we had no choice. As unhappy as I was to move there, I was thrilled that you might actually get to see snow, real snow. Our first winter there your brother and sister were born and it snowed three times. No more than an inch each time, but enough for you to build a few snowballs and giddily slide down a hill, your shrill giggles echoing through the cold air. The duck pond behind our house froze, but not enough to put fun Christmas decorations on like our neighbor in Connecticut. I longed for a good snowstorm that the three of you could play in. Our second year there, we had a white Christmas, getting even more snow than our family up north had. Four inches on Christmas Eve and one more in the early morning hours of Christmas Day. I was ecstatic, thrilled that the three of you would finally get to experience what I had as a child in Connecticut. You sledded, built snowmen, made tunnels and snow angels until your little noses were red and runny. Then you came inside, took a hot bath, and we made hot chocolate and cookies, the perfect Christmas Day. But that was rare, to get that much snow, that much good snow, in Tennessee. By New Year’s Eve, we had made plans to move back to Connecticut. We didn’t like Tennessee anyways and we wanted to give our kids better lives, so to Connecticut we went.

Now, having spent the past year back in my home state, I realize how much we change, how the events of our lives dictate our wants and needs with us left trying to find the solution to our problems, to balance necessity and desire, to be happy. I used to think I hated winter, hated Connecticut, needed a change. Then life happened and it led me back here. When winter comes, I’m able to find joy again, just like I did as a child. All I want is for you to be able to find the same joy, not just in something small but in life. Listen to yourself, follow your journey, see where it leads you, and always remember that you can find yourself in the littlest moments, like a snowy, winter day.