I remember years ago, during a cold and snowy winter day, our family spent an afternoon at a local ice rink. We were playing in the fluffy white snow piled high around the rink. The towering snow banks provided a buffer for our falls as we counted on them to halt our forward progression.

"Your fingers are frozen," Mom said. Peeling ice chunks from my mittens, she placed them on the rocks circling the fire. The day had been wonderful; laughter and warm smiles filled every moment.

Dad finished taking a quick lap around the rink on his new skates and shouted, "Come on, grab hold of my hand." He extended his arm and invited me to join him in a game of crack-the-whip.

I jumped to my feet and clutched hold of his hand. "Don't let go," I said. "I don't want to end up in the cold snow bank."

"Don't worry," he said, then winked. "You are in good hands."

Our conga-like line grew longer with every pass across the icy surface. Then it happened. Someone cracked the whip! Shouts and screams of excitement filled the air as the person flying from the end of the line was snapped off and went sailing into a snow bank. The day was perfect, we laughed so much and I felt loved, warm and protected.

The thing is, this picture exists only in my dreams. It is a scene I played out in my head and captured on the pages of my mind then stored in my heart. I longed for a family that frolicked, laughed and giggled from the sheer joy of being family. I have cherished this photo for years, if only in my dreams.