The Snow Angel

The sun reflects off the freshly fallen snow, causing a million little sparkles. The sky is deep blue and cloudless. Everything is bright and clear, each color contrasting against the others like a fresh painter's palette. The wind is fierce; hurling twirling, swirling snow squalls across the lake. I squint at the scene around me, wishing I had sunglasses to accompany my wintry ensemble of snow pants, ski mittens, a hat that falls over my brows, and an infinity scarf that won't stay tucked into my long, down coat.

Something beside me falls to the ground, it's heavy impact sounds like snow falling off the roof during a warm day. It is my daughter, who is 10 and on the fringe of being too cool to do things like play in the snow with her mom and sister. She lands on her back and stretches her arms and legs into an X, brushing them in and out, making a snow angel. Her cheeks are rosy red from the wind and cold. Her dark brown braids stick out from under her hot pink, fleece hat. Little flecks of sparkling snow rest on her glasses. She laughs, calling, "Mom! Mom! Watch me! Watch ME!"

"I am!" I cry. I pull up a side of my hat to cast one eye in her direction while I bend down to adjust my other daughter's snowshoe strap. My hands fumble to tighten the strap and I toss my mittens to the ground. My fingers burn from the cold, warning me of frostbite. I continue the wrestling match, her snow pant leg sliding down her boot, covering the straps, her antsy body above me wriggling around, causing her to lose her balance, lift a knee and knock my glasses sideways. "Watch your knees and calm down!" I plead. She steadies. The strap is secure and I grab my now wet and crusty mittens, and use my hands to push off my knees to an upright position.

Slightly disoriented, I glance at the snow angel and it is an indentation, a memory of movement that took place in the snow, forgotten and abandoned its maker. My 10 year old is beside me, nearly obscured by the bulk of my coat and scarf, each limiting my peripheral view. "Are we ready to walk?" I ask her, smiling and hiding that I am already cold, and tired of the forced fun adventure I insisted we take.

With hands on hips, she stares at me. "An old lady just told me that it's too cold outside for children to play today." "Well, where is this old lady?" I furrow my brow, seeing no old lady, or young lady, or any one at all. My daughter's mittened hand points toward a row of houses. "She was over there." She states this as a fact, giving me the side eye, wondering if I trust her story. The houses are lined up side-by-side along the lake's shore, sheltering the rest of the town from the gale-force winds of winter. It is quiet. I see no cats curled in windows, no dogs at doors eager to play outside with us, and no people at all watching us from afar, including an old lady. My newly snow shoe-footed daughter taps her feet in a little jog. "Can we walk now? I'm cold." I wave my bundled arm toward my 10-year old, motioning for her to lead us in making a path in the snow. "I don't know where that old lady went, but I don't agree with her. It is not too cold for children to play outside today. Let's go." We make our way slowly along the water's edge. I hold my one daughter's hand as we walk side-by-side against the wind, and push my hat up every minute or so to watch the bounce of braids of my other daughter who will continue to test me and forge her own boundaries, yet will always be my snow angel.