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The air inside the Simpson-Lovejoy bungalow is thick with the scent of cedarwood incense and the faint, plastic tang of thousands of LEGO bricks. Lisa, her brow furrowed in the intense concentration that has defined her since childhood, adjusts a delicate translucent spire on her "Sustainable Springfield" model. Even at twenty, with the weight of her State Senate duties pressing on her shoulders, the annual LEGO Construct contest remains her sacred sanctuary. Across the room, Jessica—her rebellious streak now channeled into the curation of The Crypt—is lounging on the velvet sofa, shuffling a deck of gold-leafed tarot cards with the fluid grace of a card shark.
The rhythmic shuff-shuff of the cards and the click-clack of plastic bricks are the only sounds until Tumi, the ever-reliable UO student, lets out a soft, delighted gasp from the window nook. Nineteen-month-old Zia is perched in Tumi’s lap, her tiny fingers smudging the glass as she looks out toward the darkening Oregon sky.
"Lisa, Jess... look," Tumi says, her voice hushed as if speaking too loudly might break the spell.
Jessica drops her deck, the The Star card landing face up on the rug, and moves to the window. She wraps an arm around Lisa’s waist as Lisa joins them, peeling herself away from her architectural masterpiece. Outside, the first fat, heavy flakes of December 2021 begin to drift past the streetlamps. It isn’t the chaotic, cartoonish blizzard of their youth, but a silent, crystalline descent that turns the evergreens into shimmering ghosts.
"Snow," Zia whispers, her voice a tiny imitation of her mother’s wonder.
It’s her first real exposure to the phenomenon—her first winter was a blur of infancy, but now, her cognitive gears are turning. She reaches out, her palm hitting the cold pane, tracking a single flake until it vanishes against the frame.
"It’s like magic, isn't it, Zee?" Jessica says, pressing a kiss to the top of Zia's head. "No spells required for this one."
Lisa watches the reflection of her family in the glass—Jessica’s dark, sharp features softened by the dim light, Zia’s wide-eyed curiosity, and Tumi’s calm, sisterly presence. For a moment, the legislative sessions, the $15-an-hour payroll spreadsheets, and the pressure of the contest melt away.
"Tumi, do you think we have enough layers for her?" Lisa asks, her inner planner already calculating thermal efficiency.
Tumi smiles, adjusting the toddler on her hip. "I’ve got her puffer jacket and those tiny mittens you bought at the craft fair ready to go. We can stay out for five minutes?"
They transition into a flurry of activity—the zipping of coats, the frantic search for a matching boot, and the general chaos of dressing a toddler for the elements. When the door finally creaks open, the crisp, biting air of the Pacific Northwest rushes in to meet them.
Zia’s boots crunch into the thin white veil covering the porch. She freezes, eyes darting down to the ground and then back up to the sky. She sticks out her tongue, catching a flake, and lets out a high-pitched, bubbly sound of pure, unadulterated joy. Lisa catches Jessica's hand, squeezing it tight, as they stand on the threshold of their lives, watching their daughter discover the world one frozen crystal at a time.