It was a pretty day. The greening had begun, and everything around me was dripping and splashing. The grass and leaves sparkled with jeweled dew, capturing a vast array of colors and holding onto them for as long as possible.
Despite Mother’s insistence that I avoid the sun, I simply could not. It was delightfully warm on my face, begging me to sit at the edge of the garden and be in it. I was prepared, for at night, she would sit on my bed and count the freckles across the bridge of my nose. I only had a few, so few that she could keep track.
I turned my attention to the garden and how it would soon be filled with heady blossoms. It was time to honor the passing of the torch, from winter to spring with summer waiting patiently.
It was down to the two of us, the last snow angel—refusing to give in, safe in the small patch of snow beneath the shadow of our house—and me. Gradually, the other two surrendered to a clear, deep puddle. Throughout the entire winter, I tended to them. With all of the snow piled up around us, it had become an unintended commitment. I didn’t give it much thought. It just happened.
Bess Adams, April 1873, Fall River The Angels' Lament Etched in Granite: Book Two