I remembered my baptism when I dipped my hand in the frigid blue water of a glacier, when I felt mist clinging to my face and dampening my clothes, when I watched the graceful, floating powdered sugar descent—deceptively powerful—of waterfall after waterfall after waterfall.
On this aðfangadagskvöld, it’s my duty to tell you specifically about the final Yule Lad, who arrives tonight. His name is Kertasníkir, and if you know Icelandic, you’re clutching your candles.
I sank my water bottle into nature’s LaCroix, took a sip, offered some to Gwyn.
And I invited my dad to join me. At the time, I wasn’t sure of the precise reasons I did it, it just felt right. In retrospect, I think I understand it better.
