The Coldest Winter I Ever Knew
The first winter that ever touched me
didn’t fall from the sky.
It slid off a paperback spine,
sat heavy in my lap,
and refused to leave.
Her name was Winter Santiaga,
and she walked out of those pages
like she already knew me.
Not fictional.
Not polite.
Too loud for libraries.
Too real for permission.
She spoke the language of survival,
of girls who learn early
that love has rules
and winter doesn’t care who you are.
Reading her felt like recognition-
like literature finally looked back
and said, I see you.
That book shifted the weather in me.
Suddenly stories weren’t distant things-
they were neighborhoods,
mirrors,
warnings wrapped in beauty.
I learned that ink could carry a pulse,
that our lives weren’t too rough,
too dark,
too urban
to be worthy of the page.
Years passed.
Seasons stacked themselves quietly.
But winter stayed with me,
patient as a prophecy.
Then one January,
the cold pressed hard against the world,
and my daughter arrived-
January thirty-first,
winter in full command.
I didn’t hesitate.
I named her Wynter
because some stories don’t end-
they echo.
Now every winter hums differently.
It feels intentional.
Inherited.
Like a chapter that learned how to breathe.
When I say her name,
I hear pages turning.
I hear a younger me
realizing for the first time
that stories can save you-
and if you’re lucky,
they grow up,
wrap their arms around your neck,
and call you Mom.
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