The other day I made snow angels in the cemetery across the street from my house. I got the idea by accident. It was early evening just as the sun was lowering in the sky. From my kitchen, I could see the pinkish-orange glow hit the tombstones on the hill, making long shadows on the untouched snow. A storm with big flakes had come in a day before and coated everything with over a foot of bright, reflective snow. I felt called to the cemetery. Such a funny sentence, but accurate. I had been called to the cemetery once before by a huge full moon in early October. It pulled me out of the house at nightfall without a thought or jacket or a care in the world. I don’t think I even had my watch on.
This time I suited up. Jeans, sweater, mittens, boots I could tuck my pants into, my dark blue winter coat, and an old orange hat. I walked down the street a ways, looking for a somewhat cleared entrance. I found what I thought were two bunny trails in the snow and picked one to follow. I might have concluded these were not bunny trails when they appeared to stop at the first tree, but it took me to the second to conclude that I had not been pretending I was a bunny, but instead, much to my disappointment, I had been pretending I was probably a squirrel. Either way, I found it sweet to see so clearly where life had passed by the tombstones. Living things, myself included, could be traced moving through decades, even centuries, one foot at a time past these markers.
The snow was so glittery in the sunshine. I kicked through it and the tiny bits I displaced would glide over the smooth top of the remaining, glittering even more as they moved. I got tired of wading through the snow and gave way to the impulse I always have whenever snow accumulates—I plopped down flat on by back, arms spread wide. It did not occur to me at this point that a snow angel in a cemetery would be funny. It did not even occur to me that I would leave evidence of my temporary resting place, it was only when I stoop up that I laughed. My position, with my arms spread wide, and the impression of my head made big by my puffy hood, gave my imprint in the snow a kind of crucified look. Especially in its placement among some very grand headstones and obelisks, it looked like a kind of significant omen.
While lying there I thought about other times and places I’d laid like this. I stared up into the blueness of the sky, a very pretty shade. I took in the tops of the pine trees that hung over me. At least three airplanes flew over. I concluded most people in this cemetery had never been on an airplane, and probably lived and died before they were even invented (it’s an old cemetery). Human flight would be like magic to them. I also worried that I might alarm someone with my position on the ground. Someone living, I mean, so I didn’t stay down long.
Once I stood up, saw my imprint and laughed, I decided it was time to walk back home. It felt a shame to disturb the snow, but it’s impermanent anyway. As I walked it occurred to me how funny it would be to make full-body impressions in front of headstones, but it also occurred to me that that would be disrespectful to the dead. That’s when I settled on snow angels. I was compelled to stop three times on the walk back. Each time by invitation from a beautiful open patch of snow, none too near as to be mocking or referencing any particular gravesite. All in all, I found them very funny.
I hope my snow angels might bring a smile to some stranger who happens to pass them by. Perhaps they might trace my steps and conclude that I followed the trail of a squirrel to start my haunt. But I hope they mistake me for a bunny.