A boy in red boots is making snow angels with his 
small body. Old ladies on their way to mass, fold 
their arms around themselves to keep warm. The
boy jumps up, brushes snow from his jacket, smiles 
with delight at the perfect forms carved into the snow. 
Behind him the church bell tolls, a black hearse arrives,
carrying the most recent dead. Now the boy turns
to watch the procession of mourners. His eyes fix 
on the people walking behind the casket, their arms 
wrapped around each other. He knows something 
of death, his grandfather, his dog Cyrano. He knows
when people die they need angels. As the church doors 
close, he falls into the snow and spreads his wings.

© by Janet Leahy.
Used with the author’s permission.