Jaimie was a window frosted from the winter cold. Many people scratched pictures and words into the cold that clung to her glass. They tore back little pieces of moisture to see what lay on the other side. They cut through the swirling patterns made by the frost and got mad at her because her beauty was broken. Through the lines in her frost you could see sadness and bitterness pushing against the glass, burning against all restraint. Slowly a bit of the frost melted and dripped down the window pane, leaving another trail for people to see through. They laughed at what they saw, murmuring about what a mess she was. They took out their needles and markers and wrote names for her in the frost and in the clear spaces of her glass. She pulled long dark curtains down over her glass and refused to show her face for fear of what others would say. Her friends gave up and she was alone. So I touched her gently and whispered songs of warm days and waited for her to be ready so I could wash away the pain that clung to her glass.