Snow Angel

It was my third near-whiteout snowstorm, and the beauty and meaning and majesty I remembered seemed to be outside of my 5-foot range of visibility. I wandered nonchalantly through swirling snow that had meant so much more to my younger eyes, when I still fought a heroic battle against the two-pronged assault of condensation and snowflakes on my goggles, trying to keep the flapping blue rag of my father’s jacket from fading and blurring out of sight. 

From inside the insulated passenger car of my windproof, waterproof clothing, I watched distantly as my skis left faint paths like train tracks behind me in the snow - a skier’s footprints, immediately erased as the fickle wind rejected my mark on nature’s blank canvas. Picking up the subway station theme, my thoughts announced my destination with a monotone, robotic voice, perfectly clear despite the howl of the wind outside: “Next stop Chair 7, Timber Creek Express. Proceed down the ramp for golden, alcohol-infused cabin ambiance, straight across to transfer to an icy, abandoned chairlift, thoughtfully dusted with snow.” My lips twitched upwards in a thin smile as I floated through fresh powder with wide, easy turns, effortlessly controlling every inch of my skis, conforming every unresisting snowflake to my will. The wind died down and visibility increased as I descended below the tree line, weaving through massive pines, their branches slowly bowing under the weight of millions of uninvited guests, each one uniquely burdensome. The howl of the wind was replaced by a thick silence, occasionally broken by a ‘flump’ as groups of snowflakes that had overstayed their welcome were deposited politely but firmly on the ground. White specks drifted peacefully down in torrents, a purely visual effect. I let muscle memory carry me downwards, keeping an eye on the red flashing numbers displayed on the screens hanging at intervals from the ceiling of my imaginary subway station: 3:15PM. 45 minutes till closing. I had time for one, maybe two more runs, but only if I was quick, efficient, stayed focused.

Suddenly, I felt the unmistakable rasp of rock against my freshly waxed skis. The arched stone walls of my inner subway station seemed to capture the dry scraping sound and amplify it, throwing it back and forth along its bore until it burst out of confinement like grapeshot from the mouth of a cannon, activating distant, unfrequented regions of my brain with a sudden rush of crystalline clarity. The world sharpened at the edges as I felt myself tipping forward. For a dazzling moment a mound of distinct ice flakes rushed up at me, each flake rimmed with images of medieval warfare - sharp points of ornamental weaponry, spikes of flattened crowns, patterns of battlements and watchtowers silhouetted against the rising dawn. 

Then my skis popped off with a snap and I found myself sinking face-first into a soft bed of ice feathers, inhaling tiny particles of pine-scented snow. With desperate strength I floundered upright, thigh-deep in fresh powder and breathing hard, heavy ski boots dragging me down. In my imaginary subway station, the flashing numbers disappeared and a safety notice scrolled quickly across the screen in all caps: “URGENT: DO NOT LEAVE CORPOREAL FORMS UNATTENDED. WE DO NOT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR LOST OR STOLEN PRIDE.” Laughing maniacally, I reached for the lowest branch of a scrawny pine sapling, preparing to haul myself upward towards the neon orange powder cords that revealed the location of my skis. I remembered how the neon bundles of ribbon had seemed to glow up at me like gems as I pawed through Dad’s old glove bag, looking for snacks. Thank goodness I had scooped them up and attached them to the back of my bindings, muttering “just in case” in an unconscious echo of my mother’s voice.

Luckily this particular fall wasn’t really a matter of pride but more of self-respect - the woods around me were deserted. Few skiers chose to brave the blizzard, fewer still to traverse against the full fury of the wind so far before dropping into the trees. Still, I ceased struggling upwards for a moment to listen for the faint hiss of skis sliding over snow, but heard only trees flumping snow onto the ground, a rescue helicopter droning faintly in the distance, gusts of wind pounding sporadically against the trees behind me like massive approaching wingbeats… I looked up. 

Enormous wings stretched against the sky, feathered gray and gilded with snowflakes, wide and luxurious, emerging disproportionately from behind the pudgy arms of a young girl, probably 5 or 6 years old. She wore a warm cream dress which puffed out below her waist in layers of fine netting beneath smooth, seamless fabric, cinched with a ribbon of the same cream and decorated with fabric flowers, some of which looked to be quite literally hanging by a thread. She beamed down at me with an innocent yet disconcerting smile - her incisors pointed outwards towards the hinges of her chubby jawline like spears, lying across an otherwise orderly mouthful of teeth.

The dress sparked a faint sense of familiarity. After I saw the teeth my own mouth ached in sympathy, remembering 3 ½ painful years of braces, and it clicked - she was a vision from my past. I remembered that dress; I wore it on the day of my little sister’s baptism. My sister and I wore matching dresses, but I had a stomach bug so I was very worried about throwing up all over mine, because it wouldn’t be matching then would it? Strangely, I couldn’t remember whether or not I had actually thrown up on it in the end.

With one last flap of her gigantic wings, she landed beside me on the mountain, and the wind of her passage blew a wet wall of snow into my face.

“I have a message for you,” she said, her voice (my voice?) high and light, ringing with suppressed laughter.

“You… what?” I said, still spitting out mouthfuls of snow. My voice came out low, a dark rasp with a hint of the authoritative, exasperated tone I sometimes used on recalcitrant students. 

She ran happily in circles around me, her enormous wings placing me in the eye of a hurricane, and as I looked down I realized she was barefoot, leaving impressions of her toes in the soft powder. 

“So. Things, I have decided, are becoming altogether much too boring around here. Look at these trees! They are lurking with goblins and pixies and curious red round fat fairies and swarms of snowflake shurikens from the invisible and diminutive ninjas who break off the pine needles to release blow darts into the wind.”

She began prancing sideways, facing me, her eyes gazing seriously into my own.

“The baby invisible ninjas hop between pine needles to practice their flexibility, and even when they become bigger and the pine needles break off underneath them, they jump up and swing onto the next one with their hands. The training course becomes more challenging, but they can’t give up or they’ll fall.”

She jumped to a stop, planting both feet in front of her, creating a tiny splash of snow. I felt the bramble bush twisted around my heart loosen and turn to soak up her gaze, sprouting large, leathery leaves, its thorns twisting open to reveal flowers in bright, warm colors, each with four elegantly curling petals. But while my soul instinctively rejoiced, my mind resisted. I could feel the thread of her thoughts leading me through a maze of her own creation, gently tugging me towards an answer - always just around the next corner. But her mind was my own and I knew its tricks; I refused to let it lead me towards false epiphany. I pulled on her thought-thread and jerked its answer to my palm, held it up for inspection. Its impossible flickering brightness - its steady warmth inside this whirling world of ice and snow - caught and held me, reducing me to some core remnant, dripping with melted time, that horror of possibilities fulfilled.

“But what if I have already fallen?”

“Can’t you see?” She gestured vaguely upwards. “You have wings.”

She flapped them slightly and I realized that her feathers didn’t wave and ruffle frantically in the wind like those of a bird. Instead their motion seemed more… sinuous. As I looked closer, I could see that they were made of a dull, liquid metal, sliding fluidly together like scales. Not living, but expertly forged into the semblance of life. I suspected they were indestructible. 

“Perhaps. But what if I don’t want to fly anymore? What if I’m happy right here where I am, on the ground?”

She waggled her forefinger at my waist with mischievous consternation, but her eyes were still serious. “You aren’t on the ground. You’re in the ground, and sinking deeper.”

“Infinitesimally slowly. I can use trees to drag myself up and I’m bound to hit solid ice eventually.”

She tried to roll her eyes but ended up just looking sideways for a second. “We’re getting off topic. You need to fly, my friend. You need to believe that there is a special world that only you can see, that only you can share.”

A pane of glass shattered in my eyes. My last barrier. The world started to swim and blur. “But what if… I can’t do it?”

“You can do it, silly-billy.” Her voice was childishly, innocently, amused. “You already are, kindof. But why trains? There’s no magic in trains.” She said the last word like most children would say “broccoli” or “brussel sprouts”.

But there was, she would just never understand it, that little girl with a sunlit suburban childhood, fantasy stories swirling around her head as thick and real as the storm around us. 

I patted her golden hair gently (mine was darker now), a gesture from my later teenage years, when my younger siblings grew taller than me but I still called them “youngling” as in “young padawan learner”, stunting their growth with the simple patronizing weight of my presence.

“I’ll try,” I said absently, my eyes drifting over her head to watch the trees through the whirling snow, rippling like a reflection in pond water. “I promise I’ll try.”

On the third pat my hand fell through to my side. I looked back down immediately, and for a moment I thought I saw her breaking up into particles like snowflakes, dissolving into the whirling storm she had created. Then the wind died down, the snowflakes resumed their lazy vertical drift across my vision, and I shook my head, already dismissing her presence as a delusion, brought on by cold and fatigue. The last gasp of my imagination, asphyxiated by the pressures of adult life. But as I turned to continue hauling myself up the slope, I could feel the cumbersome metal monstrosity of her wings weighing on my shoulder blades.