Living in rural Pennsylvania as kiddos, my siblings and I partook in a never-ending selection of geographically appropriate past times. Building forest forts. Pissing off bees. Chasing fireflies. Mad dashes through puddles in our Radio Flyer. But one of my very favorites was snow angels.

I’d lay on my back and stare up at the gray sky and use my arms and legs to make beautiful wings and a gown fit only for angels. And when I knew the design was perfect, I’d sit up, carefully tuck my feet under myself so that I only stepped where the snow was pressed into the ground, and jump as far from my snow angel as I could. The footprints of this mortal wouldn’t disturb my angel.