<\/div>\n

30 WINTERS<\/strong><\/p>\n

The winter of swaddling.
\nThe winter I first noticed snow.
\nThe winter of driving Amish neighbors to town, peering at girls\u2019 faceless dolls.
\nThe winter I first saw the crick freeze over, fretting for frozen crawdads.
\nThe winter of sledding, of dad\u2019s duty\u2014towing toboggans upslope, just to push, then watch me fall away.
\nThe winter I recognized Santa\u2019s handwriting, the first twinge of doubt.
\nThe winter of my first bike, giftwrapped in a sheet like some geared ghost.
\nThe winter of a fresh ream of paper and 16 markers, ceaseless stories tumbling onto snow white pulp.
\nThe winter of snow days spent cocooned in the infinity of childhood afternoons.
\nThe winter giving became more exciting, the winter of hoarding quarters.
\nThe winter of makeshift tornadoes.
\nThe winter I misplaced god.
\nThe winter of blizzard lightning, graupel, and the alien voice of snow\u2019s thunder.
\nThe winter of stolen cheer, of being iced in, when I sawed limbs off the landlady\u2019s pine to doctor up a Christmas tree.
\nThe winter of insomnia, the first snowfall of love, of dreams of your raven hair.
\nThe winter of no more grandparents, of teary uncles, of gravel voices softening like spring snow.
\nThe winter I tracked terns into your Arctic arms.
\nThe winter spent wading through Great Lake drifts, the winter of snow boots and knee highs, of watching you catch snowflakes on your tongue, of envying snow.
\nThe winter we spent knitted under the same blanket.
\nThe winter of the weeklong blackout lit only by the glint of moonlight on ice.
\nThe winter mom and I adorned the tree with baby\u2019s breath, scarlet roses, and amaryllises.
\nThe first winter without dad was built of steel and cumulus cold.
\nThe winter I spent broken in an attic at the top of the hill, when the walls, my cat, and I would howl along with the wind.
\nThe winter of Sufi lovers.
\nThe winter the only fire was made of rum and whiskey, of the spark of your perfume and the soot of your cologne.
\nThe winter I moved north, when Cleveland became an ice sculpture, my ice hotel, the winter of gentle rocking on the Rapid.
\nThe winter distance taught me I loved you.
\nThe winter you didn\u2019t visit, when I learned to use all the words tucked in my rucksack and unlearned object permanence.
\nThe winter of the new home, the brick and mortar miracle.
\nThe winter of grace.<\/p>\n

~ Holly Jensen<\/p>\n