We’ve set a date for the wedding, next year on December twenty-first—it’s a long engagement, the reason being that Hall hasn’t finished proposing yet. He’s intent on bringing to life all of his ideas that were left on the cutting-room floor when he first proposed (spontaneously, forgetting the fireworks). It’ll be months before Hall’s proposed to me in enough ways for him to be satisfied. It took an eternity to narrow down which season we wanted the wedding to take place in, because he loves the idea of summertime nuptials just as much as he wants to get married under a maple tree in the fall. Don’t even get me started on his scrapbook of possible themes, thirty percent of which involve a reindeer-pulled carriage and excessive burlap. Mark my words, we’re going to end up renewing our vows every few years so that he can carry out his many (many, many) ideas.

A lot is different about this year compared to last. For starters, there was no nifty teleportation to carry us here—we had to make do with a regular old airplane (as we were coming back from a trip to Santa Monica), which made Hall bright-eyed with nostalgia. I was somewhere up here when you granted my wish, he said. In the clouds, watching the world’s lights blink on and off and feeling like mine would never turn back on again.

Also, he lost the ability to shape-shift our twin bed into two bunks. Neither of us is upset by that at all.

And lastly, it turns out that Hall cannot ice skate for his life. Without magic, his legs splay like a newborn goat’s. But he won’t give up trying—Hall’s been out on the rink every morning at dawn, practicing. With his determination, he’ll go pro. Between bussing at Cracker Barrel and working for Channel 10 News (he’s the most charismatic weatherman the station has ever known, and his good looks and enthusiasm have attracted a national audience), he’s quite busy. He’s only made it one one-hundredth of the way through his latest list of hopes and dreams. My list is much shorter, and I feel like I’ve achieved so many wins that it would be pushing it to ask for more. Last week I sold my one thousandth box of cards, and I’ve successfully kept a houseplant alive since August. Hall brings me breakfast in bed every Sunday morning.

Life is good.

Hall doesn’t mind going about his life “manually,” having to pack the snow into snowmen by hand. He doesn’t mind measuring out exact ingredients for his pies, waiting for the clouds to decide they want to gift us with snow rather than spurring it on with a click of his fingers. The only magic he can accomplish now is the David Copperfield variety, which is his favorite, anyway, as he so loves to say with a mysterious and enigmatic air: “And for my next trick . . .” right before he sweeps me off my feet with a kiss.