that morning, we brewed espresso and drank it with heavy cream and honey. we started the day with a snowball fight and raced down to the stream, wandering over the frozen parts and daring the ice to crack. the flakes grew smaller and spun around us, clinging to the evergreen arms, to our eyelashes and scarves. when we went inside, we laid our gloves and socks by the fire. you cracked eggs into a skillet while I brewed a French press and grated smoked cheddar. we stirred cream and Jameson into our coffee and ate breakfast watching the snow dance and icicles dip far past the windowpane.
later, the snow became fine as powdered sugar. it blew through the porch screen and collected on just the corner of the table. you drew our initials in the soft crystals. I framed them in a heart, in our sugarcoated hearts.
when we left the next day, you swept the snow from the floor and the steps so it wouldn’t freeze onto the wood. but we didn’t sweep the snow off the table.
the boundless kids that we are. the big stubborn hearts that we are. the way that we unzip into our spirit skin when it’s only our spirits around, just as we are. this love is already engrained.