“I’ll miss you!”
“I’ll miss you, too!”
Lisa and I look at one another.
“For two weeks!” we say at the same time.
Lisa opens her arms, and I hug her.
“Thank you for the recommendation,” Lisa says. “I still don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything, my friend,” I say.
“Do you really mean that?” she asks.
I look at her, confused.
“That I’m your friend?” she clarifies.
“Of course you are,” I say. “With what we’ve been through, I can’t imagine being closer to anyone.”
Lisa beams.
“And I still need friends in high places, too.”
Lisa laughs.
“I’m just a segment producer, remember.” She stops and looks at me.
“For Good Morning America!” we scream again at the same time.
I think of the snow and the daffodils. I think of my life then and now. I think of who I was, who I am and who I want to be.
“Blame the lake effect,” I say.
Lisa doesn’t shoot me a concerned look; rather, she nods, seeming to understand exactly what I mean.
That winter can change a person. It can show you the delicate structure of the world when everything is stripped clean. It can illuminate your soul when the world is cloaked in darkness. It can warm your heart when everything else is frozen. It can let you hear your own thoughts for the first time when the earth finally falls silent.
But mostly winter can let you see the silhouette of your body’s branches—like a tree in February—when all the leaves are off, the green is gone, the adornment stripped away and, for the first time, you can appreciate all the knots, bends, broken limbs and lightning strikes.
You can see the beauty that has been created in harsh times.
But to see all of this you first must be willing to stand alone in the cold.
I see the stand of sassafras in my mind, and I smile.
I made it happen, I think, before amending that thought. No, Jo made it happen, too. She took my dream and made it reality.
When I called Jo, I told her that Good Morning America was my dream job. But it had to be on my own terms. I didn’t want to leave Michigan. I didn’t want to leave my job at TRVC. But I did want to do the job they offered. So, what if I were to stay in Michigan but commute to LA twice a month to shoot live? In the meantime, I could shoot my segments here—and bring the beauty and four seasons of Michigan to the world—without upending the world I had created.
“Without leaving my mom, my friends, and Mason,” I had told Jo.
“Mason?” she had asked in her inimitable way. “Be still my heart.”
“You still have one?” I had joked, before adding a bonus: And what if I brought along the most talented news director with whom I’ve ever worked, a woman who took our TV station from worst to first—as my segment producer? If they were to hire me, they also had to hire the woman I trusted to be the LA glue that held my segments—to be titled Sonny Skies Ahead, a show that would be equal parts weather and feel-good human interest stories—together?
Jo did it, of course. Like GMA ever stood a chance.
Lisa will now be responsible for scheduling interviews with guests, reviewing scripts, editing footage, pulling together my stories and lifestyle vignettes, and creating a seamless viewing experience for my Sonny segments.
She will be working in LA. I will be working here and there. We will be working together.
Why can’t women have it all?
“Oh, that reminds me,” I say, reaching out to touch Lisa, who is now being mobbed by guests at her going-away party. “I have a gift for you.”
“A parting gift?” she asks.
I pull a little box from my bag and hand it to her.
“It’s so pretty,” she says, unwrapping the velvet bow on top. Lisa opens the box and looks at me. Her eyebrows raise in confusion. “What is it?”
“It’s a key,” I say.
“To your heart?”
“No, to my house in Palm Springs,” I say. “I thought if you needed a weekend getaway you could use it.”
“Really?” she says.
“It’s the perfect getaway from LA. Believe me, you’ll need it. It’s a stressful job in a big city with a lot of pressure. Palm Springs is the perfect paradise to unwind.”
“Again, I don’t know how to thank you.”
I smile. “Well, actually, this time you can. I have a list of things that need done when I’m there. It would save me a lot of time, worry and money if you could.” I grab my cell and hit send. “I just sent you the checklist for the house.”
“I knew there was a catch.”
I lift my phone and show her a picture of the glimmering pool in the sunshine, magenta bougainvillea in bloom, the mountains looming in the near distance.
“And consider your checklist complete,” she says with a laugh, taking the key, putting it back into the box and shoving it into the pocket of her long sweater.
Music begins to blare, and suddenly the lights in TRVC’s conference room go dark. A song comes on with a familiar beat. One I knew from my younger days.
“Ice, Ice Baby” by Vanilla Ice.
I look at Lisa. She looks at me and shrugs.
A spotlight appears at the door.
Icicle appears in it. He lip syncs for a moment before grooving to the beat. Finally, he moonwalks across the floor.
The lights come on, and the entire news team bursts into applause.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Lisa shrugs again, but then moves forward to join Icicle.
“We,” Lisa starts, putting her arm around Icicle, “couldn’t think of a better way to announce the following news—I’d like to introduce everyone to our new news director, Ron Lanier.”
The room explodes.
“Ron?” she prompts.
“Thank you, Lisa,” he says. “I’m beyond honored to serve as the new TRVC news director. And I must thank Lisa for recommending me. Once you say you work for Good Morning America, you can pretty much get anything you want.”
The room titters.
“That said, I know I’m young. I know I’m still unproven. But I have done every job at the station, from sweeping the floors to writing news, from being cameraman to being on air. And with my ‘Ice, Ice Baby’ performance, I am officially retiring my nickname. It’s who I was, not who I am. I hope you will respect me—and that decision—by calling me Ron, which is what I use on air. It doesn’t change a thing, and yet it changes everything.” He stops and looks my way. “Right, Sonny?”
I nod.
“I want this to be a newsroom filled with trust, respect and hard work. Lisa has built the number one news team in northern Michigan, and I plan to keep it that way. I am so, so proud to help lead us into the future. Thank you! And now let’s have some fun!”
I am not only bursting with pride but my legs are shaking from emotion.
I make a beeline for Lisa and Ron. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask them. “How could you keep this a secret?”
“Really, I’m-just-going-on-a-girls’-weekend-but-actually-interviewing-with-Good Morning America?” Lisa says. “Are we playing that game?”
I turn to Ron. “I’m so overwhelmingly proud of and happy for you!”
“But,” he says. “There’s a but in there.”
“But what about us still working together?”
“Don’t worry. I’m continuing as weekend meteorologist. What choice do I have? You’ll be gone twice a month.”
“That’s a lot of work,” I say.
“I know. I can’t wait.”
I hug him.
“You’re the little brother I never had,” I whisper to him.
He looks at me, his chin quivering.
“You can’t make the news director cry,” he says. “It won’t look good.”
“Our secret,” I whisper.
I turn to Lisa and hug her, too. “You’re the sister I still need,” I whisper.
Someone hands us three glasses of champagne and slices of cake, and we toast one another before cramming icing into our mouths.
Suddenly, the lights go dim again, and another familiar song begins to play.
A circle gathers around me and Lisa.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“You don’t know?” I ask her.
She shakes her head.
“California Girls” by Katy Perry plays.
“Now I get it.” I grin. “This is for us.”
We hand off our plates, hold on to our champagne and begin to dance as the crowd shouts and applauds. We sing. On the last verse, however, Lisa and I look at one another as if we’re reading each other’s minds. We smile, nod and sing at the top of our lungs:
Michigan girls
We’re unforgettable
“Happy New Year!”
I kiss Mason.
“What a year, huh?” he asks.
The ball drops in Times Square in New York City.
“You can say that again,” I say.
“Any regrets?”
I think of my mom, who is at a friend’s house right now. She had asked me the exact same question earlier today.
“None,” I say.
And I mean it.
I glance again at the TV. People are kissing and tooting horns while confetti swirls in the streets.
I glance outside Mason’s windows. Snow, winter’s confetti, is swirling over the lake.
The two worlds couldn’t be any more different.
And I would choose mine any day.
“Auld Lang Syne” plays, and Mason grabs me, and we sway in the firelight. When the song finishes, Mason pours two more glasses of champagne.
“To a new year!” he says. “Filled with new beginnings.”
I lift my glass and begin to drink. Mason grabs my wrist.
“You’re supposed to sip Veuve,” he admonishes. “And notice how the beautiful bubbles form.”
I give him a funny look. “I’m not that classy,” I say.
“No, look at the bubbles!” he says.
I gave him a strange look. It is then I finally notice the champagne flute.
Or, rather, what’s in it.
At the bottom, amid all the golden bubbles, is a gold ring.
I sip—okay, I slam—the rest of my drink and then reach for the ring.
“Is this…?”
Mason goes down on one knee.
“It is,” he says. “I love you more than anything in this world. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
I shake my head.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Yes!” I say.
He stands, kisses me and places the ring on my finger.
“I didn’t want to wait any longer, Sonny. I know I love you. I don’t want any more regrets in my life, either. I don’t want to live in fear, or play ‘what if’ one more day. I want you to be by my side forever.” He stops. His voice is quavering. “You are the sun in my winter sky.”
Mason looks me in the eyes. His eyes are the color of ice against a clear winter sky. My knees feel weak. He is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He is one of the kindest men I’ve ever known. He is a good man who loves me.
I kiss him as the music continues to play in Times Square.
“I have one more surprise for you,” he says.
“Was there something else in my champagne glass that I mistakenly ingested?”
He laughs.
“No. But put on your coat, scarf and boots.”
“Where are we going?”
“Outside.”
“It’s snowing,” I say. “It’s freezing.”
“I know,” Mason says with a big smile. “The weather is perfect.”
I pull on my winter garb and follow him outside. Although the snow is falling at a steady clip, it is a light snow with little moisture. The breeze kicks it around with little effort.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Mason takes my mittened hand and guides me to into his yard. We stop at the top of his bluff, which overlooks Omena Bay. The snow is two-thirds the way up my boots.
“I talked to your mom today,” Mason says. “I got her blessing. She also told me about your New Year’s tradition.”
I look at him.
“You mean snow angels?”
He nods.
I think of arriving home last year with my tail between my legs. I had tried so hard to forget about my past, our traditions, winter. And when my mom led me into the backyard and reminded me it was not only okay to remember my past but also to remember my pain, my year—in spite of all the turmoil—began to change for the better.
“Oh, honey,” she had said. “You need to remember. You have to remember.”
“We’re going to jump into a clearing, okay?” Mason says, like my mom always does.
He tightens his grip on my hand.
“Together.” Mason looks at me. “One, two, three… Go!”
Mason pulls me through the air.
“Now we’re going to fall straight back in the snow,” Mason says.
“I know the drill,” I say. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” he says, although his voice is filled with excitement.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “The snow is fresh and powdery, so it’ll be like a pillow. Trust me. I’m a weather professional.”
He laughs.
“Try to land in a T, with your arms out. Makes for a better angel. I’m going to let go of your hand now, okay?” Mason looks over at me. “Your mom told me to say all of that.”
“I’m sure she did,” I say. “Are you ready? One, two, three…”
We fall backward together, and I can’t help but scream from the adrenaline. We land with a big Poof! and snow billows up and around our bodies. My heart is racing, and I giggle.
“Just move your arms and legs like you’re doing jumping jacks…” Mason starts.
“My mom taught you well, didn’t she?” I ask. “But I got the rest. Now, gently press your head into the snow to make an indentation.”
We push our arms and legs through the powder, and I can feel chunks of powdery snow sneak into the back of my coat and underneath my shirt. The chill takes my breath away but makes me feel incredibly alive.
I look over at Mason. In the moonlight, his cheeks red, his breath coming out in big puffs, his hair wet and mussed, he looks like a kid.
I stare into the sky. Snow falls on my face. It tickles my nose, and it covers my lashes.
My life comes to me in flashes: child, teenager, young adult, working professional, middle-aged.
Happiness, loss, guilt, denial, hiding, discovery, honesty, happiness.
I blink, and snow falls from my lashes.
Our lives, as my mother once told me, are as brief as one blink of God’s eye. It is up to us to decide how to best use His gifts and make our short journey here important and memorable. It is important we never forget, as we too often do, what matters most in that blink: family, friends, each other.
I think of Joncee. Her blink was much too short, and yet the importance of her brief life impacted and changed so many lives.
Her life, I realize, was not a blink. It was eye-opening.
It is hyperbole to say that our lives are like the weather, or the four seasons, but some truth lies in that or such statements wouldn’t become part of our vernacular. I am likely nearing the winter of my life. And I am proud of that. Because it is a beautiful season in which to live.
I stick out my tongue and catch the snowflakes.
Stick out your tongue, I can hear Joncee say as clearly as if she were next to me. Eat some snow, it’ll make you grow.
It’ll make you look like a snowman, I remember saying.
Perfect!
“What’s next?” Mason asks. “I forgot what your mother told me.”
“You have to pick a star, and then we have to recite the poem.”
“How do I pick?” Mason asks.
“Pick one that calls to you,” I say. “It may be the brightest star, or one that is barely even noticed in the sky by people. As long as it calls to you. Got one?”
“I do,” he says.
He is looking at me.
“No, a star in the sky,” I say. “Not Sonny.”
“The Sun is a star,” he says. “You should know that. There are lots of stars, but the Sun is the closest one to Earth. It is the center of our solar system.” Mason stops. “You, Sonny, are my star. You are the center of my solar system.”
I can feel my face flush even in the cold.
“‘When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are…’” I say to Mason.
“My dream has already come true,” he finishes.
“Me, too.”
I think of my sister as I did one year ago when I was lost and with my mom. Joncee believed there was nothing purer than newly fallen snow, and that if you made an angel on New Year’s Eve then God would most certainly see it and all your wishes for the new year would come true.
You were right, I whisper to her.
“Now, we have to stand up as carefully as we can, so our angels—and our wishes—remain intact,” I say.
I sit up and position my legs underneath me, so I can stand without messing up my creation.
“Here,” Mason says. “Take my hand.”
He reaches out, his arm sliding across the snow. I take it, and we stand. Together.
We leap from our snowy silhouettes and turn around. There is a muddled line attaching the two angels, thanks to his assistance in helping me stand.
My mom and I did the same thing one year ago tonight.
“I think we ruined them,” I say.
“No, Sonny,” he says, as if my mom told him exactly what to say. “We made them better. They’re connected.”
“What did you wish for?” he asks.
“You know I can’t say. Then it won’t come true.”
“Mine already has,” Mason says.
I look at my snow angel. I’ve wished for so many things in my life, I didn’t know if God could ever make heads or tails of it. I wished for a life I used to have, I wished for a new start, I wished never to know winter again.
I look up at the sky and find the star I selected.
I used to stare at the sky—here and in the desert—and try to realign the stars so that my sister would be with me again.
And then, out of nowhere, I see it from the corner of my eye: a falling star blazing across the winter sky.
Joncee!
You’ve always been with me, haven’t you?
I just want to spread my wings and fly, I can hear her say like she did when she was a little girl. Just like an angel.
“You are an angel,” I whisper out loud. “Fly, angel. Fly!” I stare into the sky. “I love you!”
“Did you say something?” Mason asks.
“I love you,” I say.
“Me, too.”
He takes my hand, and we head back home through the snow.