This Side of Christmas

We left before sun-up; blanketed beneath a midnight blue sky. Bundled and hobbling with bags and boxes and the baby, we stuffed ourselves into the car. Fog seeped from the sides of the winding roads as we weaved our way to the highway. Seven AM and it was dreary and dead as night.

I hate this part winter. I sighed to the window, watching the wisps of fog curl in white puffs along the car. Early winter is light and hopeful. Snow is fresh and white and clean. The cold is enchanting and magical. It paints breath in delicate swirls before our eyes and daintily frosts windows with its sparkle overnight.

But this side of winter is a downward slope, moving further and further away from Christmas and twinkle of lights on new snow. This side of winter winds before me like the roads we were driving, dark and enshrouded with fog. The snow is no longer fresh and white and clean - it's brown sludge that mucks up the roads and turns the scenery into a solid mass of white and brown. The cold is no longer wistful. It's numbing and cruel and it pinches at your skin as you wait for the heat to kick on in the car.

What do you mean? My husband asked as we pulled onto the highway, leaving the fog behind. The sky ahead was lighter too, a gentle plum color. But still no sun. The days are getting longer now. We're in the upswing.

I stopped sulking for a minute and watched him. A small smile was resting on his lips as he drove - looking ahead into the lightening purple sky. He was right. We're in the upswing.