Today, we are going to Christmas!

 Winter is...
Winter is what? Ink drips from my feather pen as it hovers over my paper. Drip. Drip. Drip. Winter is cold. Winter is frigid. Winter is lonely. 
     Winter is redundant.
     But Faðir tells me stories of dancing. Faðir tells me stories of a season called spring. Dryads and Fawns and half-males would gather in circles amidst vibrant flowers. Fiddlers would fiddle and pipers would pipe and all the young little boys and girls would choose partners and dance. It sounds wonderful. No, no, wonderful isn’t… It sounds heavenly. Yes, heavenly. 
     Wind whips into the living room and rustles my paper, whisking my words across the room to land in a small puddle of melting snow near the fireplace. I jump up.
     “No! No, no, fire!” I swat at the leaping flames and pluck my paper from the hearth. The page is soaked in the middle and singed around the edges. I sigh. 
     “Why, isn’t it my little Njóla!” Faðir leaps into the house, fluffy snow dressing his beard and plants a kiss on my forehead. “And how are you this chilly morn?” He asks and slams the door shut. 
     “Fine, Faðir.” I look back at my piece of paper. Winter is redundant smears the middle of the page and dribbles down until all that’s left is soggy ink. I crush the paper. “Faðir, when is it spring?”
     His face changes. A slight frown curves around his lips. “Well, who needs spring in winter anyways? We couldn’t celebrate if it was spring.” He turns towards the dining table and fiddles with the packages he’s brought in. 
    In spring we could dance. In spring I could see the flowers.
    “There’s nothing to celebrate, Faðir.” I can taste the despair as the words slip out from my tongue. Faðir turns to me, eyes grinning. 
     “So you think, Njóla. But guess what?” He walks over and gets on his knees before me. “Today, we are going to Christmas.”
     I gasp, jumping in place. “Christmas! But–”
     Faðir shakes his head. “Don’t, Njóla, or you might chase it away!”
    I turn towards the frosted window. Christmas. I don’t remember Christmas. Only what Uncle Tumnus has told me.
     “Faðir, is Christmas magic?”
     He cocks his head. “Yes. Christmas isn’t a day, after all – Christmas is a feeling. Christmas is all the wonderful things.” he stops. “Njóla, say nothing of Christmas. The trees might be listening.”