The Magic of Place

It's summer back home, but not here. Where I am - no - where we are, is encased in the harsh cold of winter. Yet there's something heartwarming as pellets of snow, soft as feathers and boasting the same white purity, float down with a heavenly elegance. Lampposts line up across the path radiating yellow light. As they shine, you can see all around; illuminated spheres spread across the park. It's night. However, here in Central Park, we're surrounded by a city that never sleeps. The low hanging Callery Pears and the maples conceal the tall skyscrapers, but the glow of the ever-active city still seeps through. It's like I'm standing in a dimly lit room, with the freshest air brushing across my face. The cold tingles, but the touch of serenity is cordial and gentle.

Then there she is, standing in a feet of snow, high black boots that wrap around her gracefully lean legs that are housed in dark azure jeans. Her body is cloaked by a coat bearing the most vibrant red, looking dashing with the gold stream of smooth and wavy hair that flows from her beige hand-knit beret. This place is the same as it was 5 years ago. Just as beautiful. In contrast, her beauty has grown to be more and more enchanting as time passes. I'm transfixed by this emotion of love. It feels like a sigh of relief and a slight stirring of jittery butterflies. I'm captivated by this eternal loveliness, lost in this paradise.

She turns with a beaming smile and I'm struck by this real sensation of ethereal bliss. Her lilting voice calls, 'come on then you goose.' I smile back and walk after her. My hand chases to grasp hers, with the point of touch asking her to swivel her gorgeous face to look left into mine. As she hoops her arm around my own, I recognise this joy that is overflowing out of my soul. I fall into memories of the last time we were here: the same snow slowly descending around us; the voltage that surges through my quick beating heart as her soft lips - firstly graze - then connect and lock onto mine. The first of many, kisses.

We stroll for a while in the soothing peace of the park. Even in her walk you could perceive a certain composure in her, she's looking around without predetermination, not thinking about all these things like I am. Her arm leaving mine snaps me out of my sweet reverie. She's rushed off again, this time crouching on the ground rolling snow in her hands. Just like last time. I follow her with this potent nostalgia and I can't help but smile. It's as if I'm reliving reminiscences with all my senses incited and engaged just as it was back then. No. It's different this time. I'm truly content. Happy.

We separately roll our own snowmen; she likes to convey her creativity on her own. She's dwelling in her own little world, playing with the innocence of a child. Stacking balls of white, one on top of another, fluffing up snow in the grasp of her mittens. She pauses. With curiosity she turns to see what I am doing, and there I am, holding a delicate three-ball snowman. It's no larger than my forearm, with a little top hat to add uniqueness. It's frail stick arms carry the weight of my love as on the end of one arm, fires off a sparkle. Her eyes widen as they catch a glimpse of silver. She pounces on top of me, arms linking over the top of my shoulder, causing me to drop everything. Of course it's a yes.