When I was a little girl I remember being mesmerized by the frost on the windows, especially when it covered the whole glass. I loved looking at the patterns, no two a like, just like no two snowflakes are a like. That’s what they seemed to me. Baby snowflakes dotted the windows. I watch them dance. I watched the light pass through and change color depending on what was outside. I loved to trace them, to feel them beneath my fingertips. It was weird, why I loved them so much. Of course when we had to leave my mom or grandma would have to scrap them off the windows. I got really upset when they did that. I was probably 6 around the time. I remember asking why they had to kill the frost. They were destroying a beautiful living thing. They would laugh and say, well we have to see out the window if we’re going to drive anywhere.
There was no goo response to this of course. So I would stare at the frost until it turned to liquid or disappeared. Only when ever last tiny snowflake-like bit of frost was gone would I pull my gaze from the window itself, and focus my gaze outside the window.