Quetzal

Andrea was a vision.

Bundled up tight by a viridian coat, a turmeric-yellow scarf trailed after her. Her chili-pepper beanie was rivaled by the blossoming red of her own cheeks blushing against a crisp wind. Earthy mauve mittens clung to her hands. She waved to me, a vibrant quetzal floating atop an endless sea of ice.

She stood out from Milwaukee's harsh white background.

And she ran to me... or rather, shuffled. Cumin brown boots slipping across frozen terracotta bricks. My girl from Mexico City hadn't figured out how to traverse the winter landscape - not that I had either.

I drank her in, even from such a distance I could feel her radiating warmth. My shivering slowed, breathing came easier.

The colorful bundle that was Andrea grew closer, sharpening against snow and cloud cover. The icy buildings, frosted windows, and frozen roads crystalized into a monotone background of slush. She was the sole focal point of her northern canvas.

Her warmth hit me like cracking open the oven door, her arms wrapping around me, her thick hair tickling my cheek.

Everything else faded away in an instant. This foreign, cold place was transformed into something kind, something familiar. I was home. A roaring fireplace framed with sandstone in a kitchen adorned by southwestern colors. The tantalizing scent of queso blanco. The sound of my mother's wooden spoon scraping the edges of the pot. I used to laugh, adding spices without measuring.

This girl brought it all back to me.