He comes up to my side. “Why are you named Winter?” “It’s a poem by Walter de la Mare,” I tell him, still taking in the vast scenery as I recite part of it. “‘Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon, Over that sea of frozen foam, Floats the white moon.’” I have the whole thing memorized, but he’s probably not interested in hearing it. Any of my classmates who ask aren’t interested, either. “It describes winter,” I explain. “My mom said the poem made a cold and bitter season seem pretty. She said the beauty in life is what we live for, and it’s everywhere. You
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