"Follow with me," she invites with a shy laugh.
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 si
