We shoot until sunset, and as we finish, I can’t help but sing the song that keeps coming into my mind.

“‘The cold never bothered me anyway!’”

Icicle laughs. “Really?” he says. “Suddenly you’re Elsa from Frozen?”

I look at him. “You know Frozen? Impressive.”

“My mom loves that movie. She told me there were zombies in it, and I believed her.”

I laugh. “I’ve always been Elsa. Just took winter to thaw me.”

I realize the camera is pointed directly at me.

“Got that all on tape,” he says. “I think that’s a perfect ending to the segment and our day.”

We begin to head home as darkness overtakes the frozen shore.

I turn one last time to see the ice caves glistening in the day’s last light, a frozen soul coming to life for all to see.

It took only a few miracles and a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence to make it happen.

The weather has warmed. It is fifteen degrees. The polar vortex is still in effect, but it’s had a couple of stiff drinks and is finally ready to slink off to bed.

I am on Front Street doing a live “Sonny in the Winter” segment. It is the Cherry Capital Winter Wonderfest, and the event’s main attraction is the Michigan Ice Festival, which attracts some of the state’s and nation’s most accomplished ice sculptors. The downtown is lined with icy works of art, many of which have taken days to create, some sculpted by hand from fifty thousand pounds of natural ice.

I am speaking with last year’s winner, a third-generation ice sculptor who re-created the winning entry, a ballerina twirling atop rippling water, as if the lake itself had birthed the dancer. It is ten-feet-tall and dwarfs its sculptor, who crafted it from an eight-thousand-pound ice block.

When I finish, I hear a voice.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“You invited me. This is your gig.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

Mason laughs and leans toward me. “Is it okay to kiss you in public? I wouldn’t want anything to go viral. Seems like you’ve finally gotten your life under control.”

“Now that’s funny,” I say. I lean in and kiss him on the lips.

“Don’t melt the ice sculptures.”

I look up. “You have great timing, Mom.”

“Mason,” she says, hugging him.

“It’s good to see you again, Patty Rose,” he says, hugging her tightly. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

“It is,” I say.

“Been years since I’ve come down for this,” my mom says. “It is simply magical.”

And it is.

I feel like I’m in a Hallmark movie where the town is alive with the wonder of winter. People mill about in the cold, bright night sipping coffee and cider, taking photos of the ice sculptures and shopping. Traverse bustles with activity, nearly as much as it does in the summer.

“Over one hundred entrants this year,” Mason says, gesturing around. “Front Street is filled.”

“I’m glad I forecast a polar vortex for this,” I say. “Perfect weather.”

We walk up and down the street. I see Icicle shooting footage of the sculptures so we can include that in the lead-up to my next segment: the announcement of the winning entry.

“I bet I know as much about ice sculpting as you do now,” I brag to Mason.

“Oh, really?” he says. He stops in front of a sculpture of a salmon swimming upstream. The sculpture is breathtaking: half of the fish is shown breaking the surface, and its head is sculpted in great detail. Its body is underwater, struggling hard against the current.

Mason’s eyes are breathtaking, too. Juxtaposed against the blue ice at night, he looks like a sculpture come to life. It only takes my kiss to breathe warmth into him.

I kiss him.

“Get a room,” I hear someone call.

I turn. It’s my mother, again.

“Get a coffee!” I yell.

“I’d be up all night,” she says. “Maybe some cider.” She winks. “With a little somethin’ somethin’ in it.”

Mason laughs. “Cherry doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“That’s an apt analogy for these parts,” I say.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m glad everything has taken a turn for the better.”

“Me, too.”

“Now tell me all you know, ice guru.”

“The time spent preparing, drawing, designing, engineering and producing sculptures like this can take months,” I begin, as we move from creation to creation. “Sculptures can be incredibly delicate and weigh just a pound, or be massive in size, and weigh up to fifty thousand pounds or more. The average weight of a two-block ice sculpture is roughly three hundred to five hundred pounds.”

Mason looks at me, nodding and smiling. “Go on.”

I continue. “There are three types of ice that can be used in sculpting: basic canned ice with a white feather in the core, crystal clear ice block, which cost the sculptor two to three times more than the canned ice. And naturally made ice. Quality conscious sculptors primarily use the crystal clear ice that is made in a controlled environment. This skill is often passed down through generations in a family. Today, many sculptors often learn their techniques in culinary school or at specialty classes dedicated to ice carving. They learn how to use tools, including chainsaws, chisels, torches and angle grinders. It takes a great deal of practice, experience and time to reach a level like these sculptors demonstrate.”

Mason stops on the sidewalk. “I’m impressed. You’ve done your homework for this segment. I don’t even know that much about it, and I organized this whole thing.”

“Oh, I’m not done,” I say. “I was saving the most important thing for last.”

“Which is?” he asks.

“They eventually melt,” I say. “You can’t keep something in a controlled environment forever. It’s not natural.”

Mason stops walking again. This time, he reaches out and puts his hands on my shoulders. He smiles.

“Winter has a way of making us see the world from a different perspective,” Mason says. “In winter’s bare bones fragility, we either see the beauty or we see the harshness. We feel the warmth or the cold. We witness a season of stunning change or experience a season of exhausting repetition.” He gestures to the sculpture behind us, which gleams. “We see a season of light or we see a season of unending darkness.”

His words again move me. “That’s beautiful.”

“So are you.” He kisses me on the cold night, and I know that I am fully thawed, completely unfrozen. I am winter warm.

When he releases me, I finally notice the massive sculpture covered with a giant drop cloth. The sculpture is huge—probably ten-feet tall—and the draping gives it a mysterious, nearly mythical feel.

“Is that the winner?” I ask.

“That’s the winner,” Mason says. “The one you’re going to announce live. We covered it to build suspense. Works, doesn’t it?”

“You already know the winner, don’t you?” I ask. “Give it up. I can have the scoop first!”

“I do know, but I can’t tell you, or I’d lose my job,” he says. “And you already have the scoop. You’re the only station I invited tonight, and you get to reveal the winner live on air. Remember?”

“It’s never enough for TV news,” I say with a wink. “But thank you. This is so fun. And viewers love the suspense.”

My mother appears with a cup of cider. “Want a sip?”

I take it and lift it to my lips but hesitate. “This smells like something Foster Brooks would drink,” I say, handing it back. “I’ve made a vow to stay sober on air.”

“Wow, that’s quite a promise to your viewers,” my mom says with a laugh.

“Gotta start somewhere.” I shrug.

“It’s nearly 9:00 p.m.,” Mason says. “Time to announce the winner. You should go get set up.”

I see Icicle waving at me from in front of the covered sculpture. I scoot across the street, check my hair and makeup, and take my position. I can hear Lisa’s voice in my earpiece.

“We’ll do five minutes of news and then go to you live, okay?” she says. “You can talk about the Winter Wonderfest and Michigan Ice Festival, then intro the winning piece and talk to the sculptor about it. Sound good?”

“Got it,” I say.

“Back in a few,” Lisa says.

Mason’s voice booms across downtown. He is standing on a podium.

He is so handsome standing there above the crowd. Friendly, smart, sweet, funny.

I look around. He’s right. This whole area in winter feels like Mayberry during the holidays, and Mason is my Andy Griffith.

I need to stop watching old TV shows with my mom, I think, or every reference I make will only be understood by people over fifty.

“Welcome, everyone, to the tenth annual Cherry Capital Winter Wonderfest and Michigan Ice Festival. We’re honored to have with us some of our state and nation’s best ice sculptors whose talents are on display on a perfect night to showcase them.”

The crowd applauds.

“This was a juried festival. Only the top talent was invited to participate, and tonight’s winner was selected by their peers. So, without further adieu…” Mason stops, and a woman in a bright red coat hands him an envelope. He smiles and pauses.

He’s good at drama.

“Read it!” someone yells.

“Yeah!” the crowd calls.

“The winner of the tenth annual Michigan Ice Festival is…” He opens the envelope. “Winter Sisters by Stefan Koster.”

A team of people pull the giant cloth from the sculpture. The gust from its removal sweeps across me at the same time as the crowd gasps.

I look up and do the same.

It can’t be?

The sculpture is of me and Joncee as kids.

I am building a snowman, half snow, half human, which resembles my little sister. I look more closely. I am not just building a snowman, I am re-creating Joncee from the winterscape, bringing her back to life from snow and memories and love.

The expression on Joncee’s face—pure joy in the winter—captures the spirit of my little sister perfectly. And my expression—pure joy that she is with me again—brings me to tears.

Staring at our icy likenesses is like finding an old photo buried under ice.

“My sculptures have always depicted family,” the winning sculptor is saying into Mason’s mic. “My work is meant to connect people to their histories and memories. They are meant to remind us all of what matters most in this world. More than anything, I hope that my work fills those who see it with love and hope, which we need more than ever these days. Thank you for this honor.”

Mason escorts the sculptor down to talk to me as the crowd applauds and gathers around the winning entry.

“How did you—” I look at Stefan and then at Mason “—know? How did you pull this off?”

“I was inspired by the story you shared on air when I was doing research of the area,” Stefan says. “It made me change my entire design. I contacted Mr. Carrier who put me in touch with your mom. I hope it was okay. Your history moved me greatly.”

I can only stare at him, and then the sculpture.

It is then I notice the crowd is doing double takes, looking curiously at me, then the sculpture and then me again.

“And we’re live,” I hear Lisa say in my ear. “Sonny?” Her voice is slightly alarmed now. “We’re live!”

I take a deep breath.

“I’m here with the winner tonight,” I finally manage to say. I stop and look directly at the camera. “And it’s me. It’s always been me.”

Suddenly, a few people in the crowd break into applause. It’s slow and scattered at first, but it grows into a thunderous ovation.

I begin to cry.

“Keep shooting, keep shooting,” I hear Lisa saying in my ear.

My mother races up and hugs me. “Isn’t she beautiful?” she asks.

I don’t know if she’s talking about me, Joncee or the sculpture, but I see that she is crying, too.

“She is,” I reply.

I look at the sculptor.

“Do you know what I learned tonight from you?” I ask.

“Tell me,” he says with a smile.

“I learned that you cannot prevent an ice sculpture from melting in an average room temperature of seventy-degrees. Only if the ice sculpture is displayed in a climate-controlled environment below thirty-degrees Fahrenheit or outdoors in conditions below freezing may an ice carving be preserved for a period of time.”

Stefan cocks his head at me.

I keep going. “It’s like our memories. We try to freeze them in time.” I stop. “I’ve lived my life in a climate-controlled environment for a long time now. I’ve stayed frozen even in the warmest of climates. But it’s okay to melt just a little bit. The memories still remain. I just feel them now.”

Stefan opens his arms and hugs me tightly. Mason and my mother join in.

I open my eyes and look up.

Joncee is with us, too, laughing in the winter night.