THE CAMPFIRE · ORIGINAL
Snow Angels
Every morning at the cabin there's a new snow angel in the yard. No footprints going to it. Each one a different size. Each one a little closer to the house.
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My dad's family has a cabin in the mountains. An old log cabin at the end of a forest road that gets plowed maybe twice a winter. We went up every year between Christmas and New Year's. Me, my mom, my dad, and my little sister Emma, who was six that year.
It snowed the whole drive up. By the time we got to the cabin, there were two feet of fresh powder, smooth and white, perfect. Emma ran out into the yard in her snowsuit and flopped on her back and made a snow angel, flapping her arms and legs, laughing.
That night, it snowed again. A few more inches. Covering everything.
And in the morning, there was a snow angel in the yard.
Not Emma's. Hers was gone, filled in by the new snow. This was a new one. Fresh. Perfect. Pressed into the smooth snow about fifty yards from the cabin, near the edge of the trees.
Emma thought it was the coolest thing ever. She thought I'd made it.
I hadn't.
My dad walked out to look at it. He came back quiet.
"What's wrong?" Mom asked.
"There aren't any footprints," he said.
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