‘tis the season when the sky thickens to clotted cream, and snowdust tendrils crawl the streets like serpentine wraiths. when nougat clouds spit ice and the wind bites and scrapes at our mittenless skin.
don’t get me wrong, folks. early winter has this haunted beauty i can get behind, all luminescence and glitter. i just wish the whole production didn’t have to be quite so, you know. cold.
peel me back, and i guess i’m a perennial island girl at the core, still craving warmth and light. and so we put flames to waxed candles and burrow soft in fleecy blankets, stir a tortilla soup to a low simmer on the stove.
we bake sturdy cookies, shuffle cards, read books with pictures printed slick and bright or conjured out of phrases deftly spun.
we make our own warmth, work up our own light, burn away the shadowy things and rejoice for this season that makes us huddle close.
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more imperfect prose at emily's. join us.