We prepare to push off, you and I, tightly bundled against the chilly wind. You stop to shake snow from your furry-lined shoes (you should have brought boots), and my lenses fog from our breath, the frames askew. I climb in front, tentative, winding my scarf once more across my face. The sled tips as you squeeze behind, feet sneaking through my arms and across my lap. The plastic starts to move beneath us and I'm not ready but we're going, we're soaring, (I wish I could see your expression), across the slippery cold, and my breath is gone somewhere in the drift and we're flying but you're there and then the world stops moving. I'm covered in white as I wipe the wetness from my cheek and I hear laughter so I turn to look at your smile. It is then that my breath finds its way back and I realize it's me who is laughing.