This is the 43rd in a series of 365 Flash Fiction stories I’m writing. You can find out more about the challenge here.
The Snow Angel, by Jonathan L. Lawrence, 13th January 2012
Word count: 594
Theme: family, father, loss, joy, pride, growing young, snow, winter, love
“It’s here, it’s here!” the little boy shouted with such joy.
“Calm down, calm down,” his mother urged him, “it’s too late to be going outside. Besides it’ll be better when you awake in the morning, trust me. Now get to bed.”
“Okay mummy,” the boy acquiesced. He climbed the stairs and went to his room, looked out the window once more with a smile and crawled into bed, eager for the hours of the night to vanish and for it to be morning.
Early the next morning, the boy was woken up by his mothers gentle rocking, and her whispered urgent words to wake up, “Come on Timmy, come see.”
“What is it? I wanna sleep,” he said, before his senses quite returned, and then he sat bolt straight. He hurriedly ran to the window as his mum got out of the way. “Aww wow,” he said impressed at what he saw. His mother came over to join him.
“I told you it would be more special today,” she said, “Now come on, lets get you some warm clothes.”
It didn’t take long for his mum to dress Timmy, he was feeling very cooperative today. Soon he had on his jeans, and his tshirt, and a jumper, and as they got to the bottom of the stairs his mum added a thick jacket, boots, and gloves.
“Hmm… that’s something missing,” she said, and then grabbed a woolly hat from a coat hook and pulled it down on his head covering his eyes.
“Mum,” he sighed as he put it right.
“No you be careful out there,” she admonished him.
He barely head as he charged out the door she was opening.
Then he was out in it. He’d waited what seemed like an eternity. He was five years old, but he knew the seasons now because he waited and waited for it to be winter, waited and waited for this day to come.
He jumped off the door step landing in a fresh plot of snow, and left his booted stamp proclaiming this his. Then he kicked his way through to the side garden, sending thick fluffy white snow scattering all over. He took a running jump to where the grass had once been, now replaced by a field of snow, and left more boot marks.
He took running dives, and rolled in it.
Since his father had gone, this was what he lived for, what he looked forward to. He remembered his father for a few minutes, how he would show him how to make a snowball, and how to make a snow man. He also showed him how to make a snow angel. Now he was an angel, mummy said. So Timmy rolled in the snow, and the spread his arms out making a fresh snow angel, and looked up at the cloudy sky, through the snow flakes falling down, and hoped his dad could see the beautiful angel Timmy had made.
Then it was time to work, before he got too cold from all the snow melting in his jacket. He started to build himself a snow man. His mum had helped him pick some of his dad’s things to dress the snowman in, ready for when it finally snowed.
Timmy was happy, wet, cold, but very happy. And as he finally went in at lunch time, his mother shared with him one of those bitter sweet smiles, as she peeled off the wet clothes.
“He’d be very proud,” she said referring to the half built snowman in the yard.