It starts when the last flakes fall. A slight depression in the fluffy, white surface spreads out, branches, forms a rough cross. Then sweeping motions, back and forth, spreading the limbs into wings and a skirt.
Snow angels.
Ginny lay in one once, trying to help it along. We don't do that anymore. Instead, we watch them from the kitchen table as they blossom one by one on the lawn.
"I wonder what it's like," Lise says. "Being out there, I mean."
"Cold," I say. "Lonely."
The oven pings as it cools. We sip our cocoa and wait for spring.
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2 comments:
Goodness, I like this one. Hits the tone just right.
As much as we talk about how writing is about work and effort and time, there is that ineffable spark of inspiration. This one just came to me at 11:50 p.m., apropos of nothing and after an hour of aimless fiddling on mediocre topics. Sometimes stuff just happens.
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