this is what I’m from, this is winter, the pure white beauty, the large falling frozen drops, the shadows of the darkened night, the wind blowing the flakes through the air, dancing, the peace brought on by everything being hidden underneath a blanket.

this isn’t a comment about snow v no snow, what makes a ‘real’ winter or north v south. there is no judgement amongst these words, or pride even. these words are what all words are-truths, my truth. the truths of a woman born admist the humid southern sky, transported to these kinds of moments, taught survival and hardships from these kinds of moments, a woman who was once a child, like all women are, and so childishly declared a hatred for the snow and for winter and ran but then came to stand by a second story window, more than once, in more than one state that wasn’t her own, looking down and realizing how much was in the snow. how it calls to her, how it’s home.

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