thirty-one
AIDEN
Snow falls in thick ribbons,frosting everything in sight. We barely made it in from the barn before it began.
I lean against the window frame and sip my coffee, wondering how this became my life. And also, maybe, basking in the calm before the Brooks family storm.
Phoebe lies on her belly, ankles crossed, shimmying to the Christmas movie on TV. Our tree stands centered in front of the windows, lights twinkling, and branches heavy with mixed ornaments from my family and the additions Chloe brought.
Two sets of traditions, one room. The house finally feels like home again, and the heaviness I expected to accompany it…isn’t there. I don’t know how long this quiet will last—but I want to remember how it feels.
A bright, fruity-spiced something drifts through the room, tugging on an old memory.
“Chloe, what’s that smell?”
“Simmer pot,” she calls.
“A what?”
She pokes her head around a corner. “A pot with fruits and spices in it. You just keep it simmering.”
I just shrug. It sounds like something Mom would’ve done—smells like it, too. But it was just another of those things I took for granted, never really investigating.
“Don’t worry about it.” She chuckles, heading toward me, camera in hand. “Are you asking because it smells bad?”
“No.”
It smells like being ten, and being filled with excitement about Santa and Christmas magic.
“Ever seen a snowflake up close?” she asks, her eyes bright with excitement.
“I’ve seen snow. Does that count? ”
“Not in the same realm, Mr. Wheeler.” She winks as she tugs on a beanie. “You’re in for a real treat. Stay put.”
“You’re not going out like that, are you?” I say as she snags a dark green scarf off the back of a chair and slips onto the porch in a sherpa, flannel shorts, and boots she clearly planned ahead for. “Chloe, you’ll freeze.”
“I’ll be fine. It’ll only take a couple of minutes!” She calls as I close the door.
“What’s Mommy doing?” Phoebe asks, pressing her face to the glass.
“Something with snow.”
“Snowflake pictures.” She breathes. “They’re always so cool. Did you know they’re all different?”
My attention is equally torn between the little girl spouting science facts and the woman working efficiently in heavy snow flurries on my back deck.
“I didn’t know that,” I murmur.
“Can we have hot chocolate with marshmallows?”
“In a little bit.”
“Come get me when it’s ready,” she cheers, running back toward her makeshift pallet.
But my mind isn’t on hot chocolate, it’s enamored with the woman spreading the scarf on the table so the flakes can gather on it. She moves fast, bending and stretching to capture different angles.
I’m caught by the rhythm—the way she moves when she’s in it.
