Not everyone believes in fairies. In fact, most people don’t. Many children will believe in the tooth fairy when they’re still very young, and some will even believe in spring fairies. You know, the kind of fairies who grow pretty plants and flit about in gardens. (And manipulate the earth to some extent, which is very impressive; nevertheless, spring fairies are overrated.)

What about the summer fairies? The autumn fairies? The winter fairies? Summer fairies bend light and play with water; autumn fairies dance in the wind and experiment with color; winter fairies are my personal favorite. 

One Christmas morning, while the weak sunshine made the thick white snow glisten like glitter, I got into a fight with my brother. At five years old, I knew magic, and nothing he said could ever persuade me otherwise.

“Fairies are real!” I cried, stomping my foot. It wasn’t very intimidating, seeing as I was wearing fluffy pink kitty slippers and sparkly fairy wings, but it made me feel more in control at the time. “Gramma says so!”

“Gramma just says that to make you happy,” retorted ten-year-old Thomas. He crossed his arms and glared at me, as if his superior older-brother experience would make me cower in deference. 

It didn’t.

“I’ve seen them, too!” I insisted. “I saw one in a pink dress when I was four.”

“That was a butterfly.”

“It was a fairy! You weren’t even there!”

“Can we not fight on Christmas?” Mom called from the kitchen. “The cinnamon rolls are almost done! Let’s be happy when we eat them!”

I opened my mouth to argue my point further, but Thomas only shrugged and scampered around the corner, eager to have the first cinnamon roll. I fumed for a moment more, then turned around and marched over to the window seat.

Even though our house was warm and cozy, it was chilly by the window. I didn’t care about that as I climbed onto the plump red cushions and pressed my face to the glass. 

That day is etched so clearly in my memory. The freezing glass against my skin, my knees sinking into the window seat’s plush cushions, the niggling worry that my brother was right. If fairies weren’t real, it would mean there was no magic in the world. 

“…Her beautiful crystal-shaped wings were transparent with a hint of rainbow, and her dress was a lovely shade of deep blue.”

Then, there was the winter fairy. Right on the other side of the glass, right in front of my nose, she hovered in the air. Her beautiful crystal-shaped wings were transparent with a hint of rainbow, and her dress was a lovely shade of deep blue. She was small, maybe the size of a grown woman’s hand, and her hair was a dazzling shade of snowy white. She smiled as if the two of us shared a secret. As the initial shock wore off and my eyes widened in realization, she placed her tiny hand where my nose touched the glass. 

Then she vanished in a flurry of snowflakes.

Since that day, I have seen many a fairy, but this winter fairy was special. She somehow sensed my longing for her, and she brightened my entire Christmas. Now, I see her every year, every Christmas morning, and my faith in magic is as bright as the sparkling white snow.