April Ericsson had never made a snow angel.
She'd seen people make them in movies, on television, but she'd never made one herself. She wanted to. It looked beautiful. She'd wanted to all her life, but April had grown up in the south where it just didn't snow. And if there ever were a few flakes, it was never much. Never enough to make something as wonderful as a snow angel.
It just looked like so much fun. Throwing yourself onto the soft snow and waving your arms and legs around like a little kid. And it was so appropriate. Snow is so white and pure and gleaming, making even the dirtiest city look clean and beautiful. It's like an angel itself.
At least, that's how April saw it. She'd never lived with snow, so of course she had idealized it. She'd never seen snow turn into a filthy slush, never seen it cause accidents on the road, never lived on the street wishing it weren't quite so cold. April was by no means naïve, but she was childlike, in her own way. Still thrilled by lightning bugs and rabbit-shaped clouds and making wishes on dandelions. So she longed for snow throughout her childhood, and dreamed of making snow angels.
April screamed when she looked out the window that morning. She realized that all of the clichés were absolutely true. It really was like a blanket of white, like lovely white frosting on a cupcake, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She was so excited there were tears running down her eyes.
"Good god, April, what's wrong? Are you alright? You're crying!" Her screaming had woken her boyfriend, who was visibly confused.
"Roger! Roger, it's snowing! We have to go outside!" April was already getting dressed as quickly as she could. "I've got to make a snow angel!"
Roger laughed, not moving from the bed.
"What, are we ten? You act as if you've never seen snow before. It's not that exciting." Roger had seen snow every year for his entire life. For him, it was no childhood fantasy. At best, it had meant a day of no school, in earlier years. Now it just meant a longer, colder walk home from band practice.
"I haven't seen snow before!" April shouted in response, her impatience building with her excitement. "Now hurry up and get dressed, or I'm going to go fulfill my childhood dreams without you."
"What! Never seen snow!" Roger jumped from the bed, and began getting dressed himself. "We'd better get out there, then. You've got to make up for a lot of lost time." He kissed her and grabbed his scarf, wrapped it around his neck, and held the door open for April, a gentleman for a rare moment.
The practically ran the entire way to the small park which, fortunately, was only a few blocks away. April gazed around her in wonder, as Roger watched her with amusement and love.
"Alright, so we've got an entire childhood without snow to make up for. What do you want to do first? Make a snow man? Have a snowball fight?"
April shook her head, breaking out of her reverie.
"No, no, I already told you. I've got to make a snow angel." She fell back onto the ground, just lying there at first, feeling the cold, wet, powdery substance with her fingertips. She paused, savoring the new texture, then began waving her arms and legs joyfully. "Well," she asked, "is it angelic?"
"Absolutely," confirmed Roger. April gestured for him to join her.
"Come on, you've got to make one, too," she said.
"Absolutely not," Roger teased. "Rock stars don't make snow angels."
"Oh, please. If by that you mean, 'Rock stars are terribly dull and obsessed with their images.'"
"No, no, it's not an image thing," insisted Roger. "It's just that I'm so hot, I'm afraid I'd melt the snow."
April couldn't help but laugh.
"You are so corny! Get down here and make a snow angel, now!"
Roger smiled, and obliged her.
After a while, April was satisfied, and making snow angels turned into making snowmen which turned into a snowball fight which turned in to snow making out (which really had very little to do with snow and did not follow any clear transition from the snowball fight at all, but April thought it was incredibly romantic). They stayed out in the snow all day, until it began to get dark and April finally allowed herself to be talked into returning home, with the promise that the snow would still be there the next morning.
In a few months, April would never think of snow at all. She and Roger would spend their time with a different powdery white substance. In a year, April would be dead, would have been dead for months, and Roger would be a shell of his former self, dying slowly and miserably. It was hard, then, to remember a time when things had been different. But things were different, once. Life had been exciting, and beautiful, and for one perfect day they had been like children, spotless, making angels in the snow.