The Angels are Melting

The first of my memories with Mcartny.

This is Mcartny’s second winter. Walking, still a little wobbly, she says to me “Play? Snow?” This is before prepositions. All words are new. A master of intonation, she only needs to use a few. Her question becomes a chant. Her baby-fat cheeks ask “Play? Snow?” on repeat. We gather sweaters and socks. Put on coats, boots, gloves. In the backyard we make a snowman. I teach her how to make snow angels. The backyard becomes a choir of them. A cherubic children’s choir in the snow. Sniffles from a cold nose drive us in. We step between our winged imprints to not disturb their song.