Jack of Harts

I grew up on crisp winter nights with steaming hot cocoa warming my hands and lips. I walked on frozen lakes and drilled holes in the ice to fish. I rode snowmobiles and skies across frozen landscapes. I lived through blizzards made of howling winds and blowing snow that sought to kill everything in their grasp. I stepped out onto silent nights where you could see all the way to the horizon and the only sound was the snow crunching beneath your feet. I saw breath freeze in the air before rosy cheeks and bright welcoming eyes. I built snowmen and snowforts, and hurled snowballs at friends bundled up in heavy coats and scarves. I watched the Northern Lights play across the sky, bathing the land in rainbow’s light. I remember the crackle of wood in fireplaces as we huddled together under thick blankets until morning’s light. It’s a season of short cold days under a cool sun and long frigid nights under a bright moon and star-filled sky. It is the very definition of beautiful. I wouldn’t have wanted to grow up anywhere else. It was heaven.