It's probably been ten years since I last did it.
Tonight I drove home from my besties house—ten minutes through near-zero visibility of snow-gusts.
I'd played with her baby, hashed out school questions, laughed over supper—all round had a good and relaxing evening.
Then came those ten minutes of steering-wheel gripping.
And I pulled in to a freshly snow-covered driveway.
The house lights were all off—a reminder that I'm alone for the night.
But the snow? It was bewitching. Sparkling. Calling.
Just me—and the snow.
No one watching.
No one judging.
Just me free to be myself.
Free to be young.
You know what I did?
I found a sparkling clear spot of snow—and I jumped over to it, flopped down on my back, and cold flakes freezing against my bare ankles stretched myself out in the enjoyment of a snow angel.
The first one I've made in probably ten years.
Exhilarating.
I traipse into the dark house. Fumble the garage code three times before I get in. Head down the basement steps and tug off my coat—glowing with a warmth of happiness greater then the cold of my frozen legs.
I few minutes later I look out at the snow blowing and squalling past the window.
There it is on the smooth driveway.
My angel.
Partially indistinct—but wings outlined high—soaring free.
Free through the storm.
Echoing that it's good to be young again.
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