It was the kind of cold that makes you bury your face deep into your scarf. The kind of cold that, no matter how hard you jam your fists into your pockets, your fingers never seem to stay warm. It was December in Chicago and I was in love. Somehow the cold didn't seem to phase me. We walked idly in our winter coats along the sidewalks of Wicker Park. The neighborhood was aglow with Christmas and I could see warm embers of light emanating from the apartment windows off in the distant street corners. The whole world seemed to be safe inside and that single city street belonged to only us.
I looked up into the infinite lengths of the city rooftops and felt a flurry of snowfall lightly brush my cheeks as it rushed down from the sky. The snowflakes danced in waves and everything was quiet as they floated gracefully into their home atop the sea of untouched pure white heaven. We walked arm and arm, smiling silently as we listened to the glorious crunch of snow under our footsteps. I stepped off the sidewalk and into the street, turning around to grab his hand. A thin blanket of snowflakes had landed ever so delicately in his eyelashes and I smiled...because he was mine. There we were, the only two people left in the world, holding hands beneath the shelter of a solitary street light.
I did not think that one day the snow would melt away. I did not feel sad that soon it would all be gone. But rather, in that moment, I felt the miracle of two hearts blooming in the frozen depths of winter.