Soft music plays throughout the room,
flowing through the space, filling every inch
and crevice with warmth and beatitude.
It blows in harsh flurries,
each note like a crystallized snowflake,
unique, gorgeous, reflective,
millions of them producing a snowstorm.

A girl sits at a long table,
she wears a sweater much too big for her,
covered in awful knitted letters and figures,
given to her as a gift by some estranged aunt
or uncle she rarely sees,
and the sweet red of the sweater
matches her blushed cheeks.
She picks up a smooth shaped glass
and brings it to her parted lips,
letting the sip of the sweet fermented taste
fill her mouth and warm her belly.

She sways back and forth to the music,
the snowfall of slay bells and snowmen,
spinning her like a ballerina,
and she tiptoes in satin slippers
around the dinner table.
How could she not smile,
and beam with the innocence of a child
sitting with her parents and her nephews,
growing dizzy from the wine and the spinning,
never wanting to stop dancing in the beautiful snowstorm.