Snow Angels

“Come on Dad” rings the young energetic voice of my son. He’s staring at me with his big brown eyes, his little sister at his side with her soft brown curls poking out of her pink hat. Both kids are securely padded in black, pink and red, nylon and cotton. They look like multicolored marshmallows with bright little faces peering out, ready to hike the Arctic Circle. It’s the first real snowfall of the season and my wife has convinced me, or maybe I should say guilted me into taking the kids outside to play in it. I’d much rather sit inside, on the warm couch and enjoy one of the few times the Jazz game is televised on basic broadcasting. But as I turn back to check the score the tiny sweet voice of my pint size daughter chimes “I so cited for snow fakes.” How could any father resist? I grab the remote and hit the red power button. As I pull on the boots that my wife lovingly has placed beside my coat and gloves, I notice her grunting and groaning on the ottoman trying to tie her boots. She’s eight and a half months pregnant with our third. Her swollen belly pokes obtrusively through her sweatshirt and I can’t help but chuckle to myself. She is so adorable, as she tries to maneuver around the unknown child in her belly, to perform such a simple task. I stare at her beautiful face framed by dark silky locks, and as it tweaks and scrunches it hits me, I should probably offer assistance. She’s grateful and as we both tell the antsy children bouncing in place by the front door “one more sec,” our eyes meet. She gives me a grin and says “let’s go, I’ll grab the camera.” I give one more longing glance toward the television and think to my self, she’s probably right. I don’t want to do this now, it seems like a lot of work for a half hour of activity, but I will be glad we did it in the end. She often has an idea of something we should do as a family that more often than not requires a good deal of preparation and planning, and a lot of energy exerted. All of which I perceive beforehand as hassle, but she insists we do it anyway. Then after my complaining and resistance, she finally convinces me to go along. I groan a bit at the beginning, but once the activity commences, the joy and fun that follow are priceless, as are the memories.
I zip up my coat and query “are you guys ready to make snow angels?” “Yeaaaaaaaaaaaa!” erupt two tiny and excited voices. I open the front door and as our children scamper outside I notice the big fluffy white snowflakes floating down slightly at an angle. They are beautiful, perfect little ice creations of nature. Their symmetry, too small to see, is amazing. And here we are to squish, throw and trample through these formations without regret. It’s only 6:20 and the evening sky is pitch black, but the cold world is bright with the clean beauty of the snow fall. My wife and I follow our offspring as they scream and giggle with delight. My son’s first task to be diligently performed, as he stated earlier in the evening, is to create a snowball utterly doomed to hit me in the head. “Dad, it’s not working,” he sulks. Is it ironic or just my karma that I have to assist my son in preparing the object of my demise? I tread through the foot that has already accumulated to where my son’s furrowed brow sits bent over his project. “Let me show you a good trick” I tell him. As I pack snow into my gloved hand, I notice the look on my son’s face, as he studies my movements. He is intent on my actions, his nose creased with intensity. He is watching and slightly mimicking my movements as I produce an apple sized orb of frozen crystals. His scrunched lips smooth into a smile and he grabs my snowball and releases a slightly sadistic laugh as he hurls it at my head. The child inside me responds as I grab another handful of snow, this time intended as my own projectile. I pack the snow as quickly as I can and turn to aim my retaliation. But my son has moved. My track of snowball war is abruptly halted and I just watch. My wife is sprawled out upon the snow, her arms and legs stretched out in all directions, her head barely visible behind her round belly. Next to her I see a pink fluffy little girl, mimicking my wife, as she lays on her back staring up into the dancing snowflakes. My son plops down next to her and for a moment the three of them just lay there catching snowflakes on their tongues. The picture is serene. Right there, five feet in front of me, lays my entire world, my world of wonder, adventure and of love. They fill every cavity of my heart and soul. There they are, they are beautiful, perfect little creations of my family. My heart sings.
My small daughter begins swishing her legs back and forth. Her arms follow suit. I see my son’s head turn towards his sister and giggling he copies her. My wife soon joins in and the three of them, with smiles beaming across their faces, make snow angels. I stare for a moment, and then feel my legs moving as I step next to my son. I’m careful not to disturb the smooth snow in front of me as I turn around. I spread my arms wide and, without a second thought, fall strait back onto the snow. I stare up into the dancing white and begin rhythmically moving my arms and legs.
That night as I kiss my son goodnight, I squeeze him extra tight. “Ouch daddy, not so hard” he giggles. I smile and as I turn off the light I notice his blinds are still open. I walk over, grab the draw string, and glance quickly out the window. Something catches my eye. Four figures, angelic like and perfectly white lay in the snow. Their smiles are beaming towards heaven as they lay there, beautiful, miraculous, and perfect. I smile back and close the blinds.