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2023 Fred & Edith Herman Memorial Prize

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wintering in america

by Mishal Imaan Syed

At the solstice, December pulls in its wings. 	The hemisphere holds its breath, wraps its boughs  in ribbon. I nest in the children’s section of the county’s 	only bookstore, my exhales framed in milk-white filaments  on the windowpane. Ambient hunger clings to the land, 	pulls my eyes from the veil of ice that slicks the road  to the toddler curled between books, cheeks aflame with cold 	—a life, just one, in emergence. She wears my sister’s face.  She turns the pages with ragged hands, not yet understanding 	the curious mechanics of paper and ink. Outside, sparrows  burst radiant from the hedgerow. Snowflakes shiver 	in descent, and one settles its spider’s body on the glass,  trembling before it blurs. Through the static 	I hear the toddler still reciting her C’s. I ache  for the first snow that lit the city after we tumbled 	like hailstones from the airline—my sister and I—  together we saw Liberty’s torch garlanded in white. Together 	we watched the cardinals, blood-rapt against the naked trees.  Together we read aloud from pop-up Alice in Wonderland 	until her house of cards came down and the Queen  of Hearts fluttered at half-mast like a severed angel wing. The dark 	always fell too soon. My sister asked for a red coat and mittens—  new ones. Still she patched up Alice with clear tape 	and gave the book to another girl, whose mother  was never home. See—we build libraries 	wherever our words catch the light.  Time bends around us, wool-soft, and I find 	myself here, in my county’s only bookstore—  where the toddler’s nose burns pink 	between the alphabet, and her skin  grows silvered in the fading winter, 	and the pines sigh into green hibernation—  and my sister is twelve 	at our kitchen table,  cutting paper snowflakes, then sinking them 	through the hearth and watching them curl  to ash, their fractal wings 	swallowed by firelight.

 

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