“Frost is what they call her,” my dad would say in his strong, wispy voice. The first time I heard about her was on Christmas Eve when I was eight. Since then, it became a family tradition. Every year on Christmas Eve, my dad would don his stark white cloak and tell my mom and me stories about Frost (apparently, she’s the real version of Jack Frost). “Long hair whiter than snow, thinner than ice, eyes that shine like black diamonds, and skin that almost looks translucent if you get close enough,” he would always start with the same introduction, and this year was no different. But this time, he told us a story I had never heard before—about the time he fell in love with Frost. Usually, he would tell us tales of Frost saving winter and how she would flit around Ireland at night, coating windows with intricate ice crystal designs.
“One Christmas Eve, I saw her,” he began. “She looked exactly like what I’ve always described to you. I was so mesmerized; it felt like I had seen a fallen angel. I had been awakened by a noise and went to get a glass of water when I felt a flash of cold light. When I turned around, there she was, outside. She was on the neighbor’s roof, making snow with her hands that poured out like water, cascading over the roof’s edge before the wind carried it into the crisp air. The snow sparkled like diamond dust until a shadow caught it, making the magic disappear. I went outside to say something, though I had no idea what. She got startled and fell off the roof, but floated down to my feet. Her head was scraped, and blood ran down her face. I rushed inside to grab some supplies to help her. When I came back, she was still there, silent. I cleaned her up and even made her smile. Her body was colder than steel but softer than silk. From that night on, we were inseparable. Frost visited me every night at midnight for months. We were just teenagers, but we were in love. As winter was ending, she cried and told me she had to leave and couldn’t come back. With spring and summer approaching, she couldn’t stay, and she didn’t want me to wait for her. I begged her not to leave and told her I loved her, but it wasn’t enough. She left that night and never returned. The winters after were harsh and dangerous, full of blizzards, and the snow was so deep that no one could go outside for days. I knew Frost had changed the winter. The last severe winter like that in Ireland was about ten years ago, the summer before I met your mother.” My dad recounted this nostalgically, as if it was a beautiful, fleeting moment that shaped everything. “I wonder what happened to her,” he said softly before telling me it was time for bed.
After the story, I climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling, pondering my dad’s words when my mom walked in. I always thought she was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. She had long black hair with a stark white stripe in the front, her eyes were black and lustrous, and she was always warm. Since I was little, she would stand outside during snowstorms without a coat, scarf, or gloves, smiling for hours. She tucked me in and told me how much she loved my dad and me, urging me to dream of an icy palace in a faraway land. Just before she closed the door, I called her name, and she looked back, giving me a single wink.