Winter lends itself to reverie. Blankets of snow mute the colors of the world and dampen the senses. White flurries fall while I sleep, and my youngest, the Snow Princess, awakes, toddles to the bedroom door, babbling half-coherently at me until I awake and follow.

The border between wakefulness and dreams blurs, weaving into each other in ways that are hard to follow. Amused and enamored, I mumble to the Snow Princess, “You’ve convinced me.” Of what, I’m not certain. Something to do with her beauty, her strength, and her delight. I crave the cozy cavern of deep sleep, but she sparkles in the moonlight and insists that I come play.

I resist until the very end, fighting her like I’m the babe, and she my mother. “It’s time to sleep,” I moan at her. But still, here we are in the room between rooms, the room named for Frigga, Odin’s wife, goddess of the hearth and spindle, dreams and psychic power. The hour strikes 3.

We walk circles together, drink cool water, and pour bits of kibble for the wakeful kitten perched quietly at our feet. I imagine a story unfolding, conflicting arising, and then untangling. Around and around, like a drop spindle. I’m still so new, sometimes the wool tears away in my fingers, or the yarn gets caught up in itself. I’m still so new, sometimes I give in to the frustration. Never for long.

Quiet peace descends. Sprawled across my lap, the Snow Princess sleeps, warm white liquid pouring a somnolent potion from my breast into her mouth. We sit there for a another long moment before I rise and carry the both of us back to bed.

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