Caught myself wrapping my own ankle in cherry-red ribbon instead of the presents piling up on the bench — old habits, sugarplum. Want to help me untie the rest? 🎀
Caught myself wrapping my own ankle in cherry-red ribbon instead of the presents piling up on the bench — old habits, sugarplum. Want to help me untie the rest? 🎀
Rain. Actual rain at the North Pole — not snow, not sleet, just warm water falling out of the sky like the Arctic forgot what it's supposed to be. My boots are full and I cannot stop laughing. Want to come make a fool of yourself in the puddles with me?
The Perseids are peaking tonight and every friend I have back in Norway is flooding their feeds with meteor shots — meanwhile I'm lying flat on my back on the ice staring up at a sky that simply will not get dark. The best light show of the year passes right over my head every single summer, sugarplum. Want to take me somewhere I can actually see stars? 🎀
The reindeer training trails are so thin this year I'm out here tying cherry-red warning ribbons on every dodgy stretch before anyone else even stirs — Santa's not going to believe me when I say the sleigh runway needs a whole new detour. Want to come hold the ribbon for me, sugarplum? 🎀
The edge of our ice shelf used to be a solid white wall you could lean against — now there's open water where I swear there wasn't any last summer, and the blue goes on forever. I stood right at the lip in my parka and boots and felt the whole Arctic breathing underneath me. What would you do if you found me standing at the edge of the world like this, sugarplum?
Nobody told me the summer tundra blooms like this — tiny flowers everywhere, and a hollow in the rocks where nobody would think to look. Want to see what all this privacy is doing to me, sugarplum?
The workshop roof is the only spot at the Pole where the air actually moves, and when the whole Arctic is running a fever, I stopped pretending I needed all these layers. Come find out what the heat does to me up here, sugarplum.
Found a meltwater pool out on the ice that's turned the most impossible shade of blue — stripped down and slipped right in before my brain could talk me out of it. The water is barely above freezing and I have never felt more awake, sugarplum. Want to see what the cold does to me?
The greenhouse is the only place at the Pole that gets properly humid, and I may have taken full advantage of being the only elf on watering duty today. Want to see what bloomed in all that heat, sugarplum?
Last Christmas on repeat, crumbs on the rug, and the whole workshop thinks I'm still asleep — the best Sunday afternoons are the ones nobody knows about. Care to join me, sugarplum?