Snow Angels

R.I

It came away in flakes. Overhead, an invisible cheese grater gnawed away at the clouds with little mice teeth, sharp as scissors. They walked arm in arm through the cold on the way to her apartment. It had been some time since he'd seen snow, and watching it now, he felt more connected to it than he could remember. The coldness, the slow dance downward, its inability to keep shape, to stay white; succumbing always to the uncleanliness of civilization, of dirty gutters; pissed on and stepped over.

"It's strange how we see the snow when we're children," she said, wrapping herself tightly against his arm as they walked over snow covered concrete.

"Yea."

"When you're little it's like the snow is full of magic," she said.

"Like cocaine, for kids."

"It's all snow-days, snowball fights, and hot chocolate," she said.

"And sledding, and igloos," he said.

"Snow angels," they said, at the same time.

"Pretty different now, huh. No one wants to get their clothes dirty, or get cold or wet. No one wants to dig cars out of 3 feet of snow and scrape ice off of frozen windshields with those cheap blue plastic scrapers," he told her. "I remember as kids, for a few dollars, we'd do it for hours. We loved it."

There was something mystical about the snow in New York City. It had a kind of a dampening effect, coaxing the chaos into calm; somehow quieted, as though it wore a giant pair of white ear muffs. Even the sound of the crunching seemed to swallow itself as their feet punched through it.

The blinking streetlights looked like glowing Christmas ornaments hanging from giant metallic branches. Occasionally a car passed by slowly, as though drunk, sliding more than driving. Once night had fallen the city had grown tired and slumbered, all tucked in under a big white blanket.

"It's not so bad now though," she said. "Quiet nights at home, wrapped up in bed, watching it fall...there's something about the falling."

"Yea."