Snow Angel

Winter is the feeling of my first kiss. It was on a dark sidewalk in the midst of a clean snowfall that was as blank as a slate could be, glowing orange beneath the suburban street lights. I got some snot on my top lip, and I fell in love with the recklessness of not caring whose it was. It was sweet and simple and cozy--exactly how a first kiss should be. That boy never broke my heart and, to this day, I still trust a good, clean snowfall.

Maybe that's why I got married in the wintertime. I wore my grandmother's Japanese fur, and the ancient satin lining refused to let any warmth melt onto my bare shoulders. We had pictures taken in the park, and my numb toes stumbled around the cobblestone, even in ballet flats. Big white bulbs hung from the trees, reminders of the just-past holiday season.

It's the winter I love, not Christmas. So our apartment is full of shades of blue that are muted pale cheeks and shiny chapped lips, shades of blue that make sense in December but linger seamlessly into the next year. The only reds are our childhood stockings hanging from the bookshelf. Mine is a garish, sequenced tribute to the mid-80's, while my husband's is a calm plaid print that seems like it would be a good listener. He teased me about my stocking, and I raised my eyebrows in mock horror that he could be so cruel. But when I got in my car later that night, I cried. I knew my stocking missed hanging next to my family's. It seemed so sad to be hanging next to a relative stranger's plaid that didn't even have a single jingle bell hanging from the round stocking toe.

The other night, when I unpacked my ornaments for the first time in my married life--I hadn't seen them in years--it made me feel old to realize I might have the maturity to gauge if one or another still held sentimental value or not. The most obvious was a three-inch tall Marilyn Monroe, holding down her skirt and blowing a bright-red kiss. I will blame that on a band trip to Orlando where my Nebraska heart was desperately confused by the heat in December. I wanted to ride the teacups with that boy I kissed in the snow, and somehow that led me to a $9 ornament purchase that makes the nearby ceramic carolers blush. The ornament box also held a paper Christmas tree constructed entirely of old stamps and rubber cement, an obligatory "Baby's First Christmas," and a ceramic snowflake I bought when I visited my English birthplace when I was 20 years old.

I spent this afternoon hanging white Christmas lights and stringing severely glittered snowflakes between the white bulbs. It might have been easier to use fishing line or something reasonable like that, but I didn't think twice about grabbing the mint floss in the bathroom cabinet; I declared it entirely suitable when it met my one requirement of being white. As I strung the snowflakes, my fingers grew sticky with the flavor on the floss. I licked them, lingering glitter and all, tasting peppermint and swallowing it down whole.