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It snowed on my birthday. I loved to watch the falling snow in the lamplight as I drove home. Home from what? A performance. How old? Sixteen or so? They said I was wise beyond my years when I shooed off the boys from our dance practice. We were in one of the kid rooms with the tables and chairs made for leprechauns.

Later, we wore wreaths in our hair. I still shudder at the thought of rollers. Dang straight hair. But it looked pretty. We all did, like cheery butterflies.

Madrigal. That was the name of it. It was medieval, and I loved our small part in it. I’d been choreographing dances for years now. All I needed were some online videos to study, and voila! A dance would be born.

We did several performances. At least one fell on my birthday. And it snowed. I wish snowflakes would stay in the hair. I’d be married with them studded through each ringlet if nature allowed.

Sixteen is too young to be married though. I knew next to nothing then. I was just barely beginning college, and I’d had no experience with the opposite sex. If I could go back, I wouldn’t change much. Though I would warn myself away from some people. I’d tell myself to not let that guy drag me around like he owned me.

Value. Purity. Preciousness. That is what snow is to me. That is what I am. Under those scars is a pure heart. Pure white. Under all those struggles are muscles. Endurance. Faith. Courage. I am the child of a creative Father. His love flows through me.

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