2
Grabbing my gloved hand and placing it in her mittened one, Freja leads me through the kitchen and out the back door of the house. It's so cold outside I can see our breath. We continue walking across a snowy path with our boots crunching on the heavy snow. Even with a thick knitted stocking cap on I see a glossy blonde braid peak between her cap and jacket. Enamored with her light hair and features, as they are "exotic" to my biracial senses, I study her as we walk. I am decidedly different looking than Freja, I notice admiringly. With a mix of Caribbean and European blood; light brown skin the shade of peanut butter, brown doe eyes and a tumble of unruly mixed-girl curls I am definitely not a local Swedish farm girl. Yet Freja and I are similar in weight and athletic build, but I am m
