I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But there are things that we share. Remember the first snow and not believing that the world could be so clean and so new, like a blank page in a book? Remember tilting your head back to catch the feathery flakes of white on your tongue and they tasted of nothing? Remember our father, your father same as mine, and how he carried us through the white streets, lifted high onto his shoulders, so high we thought we could touch the sky almost, and if we ever did we’d touch soft and cloud and cold, or stars sharp as frost or needles.
And all our memories of snow are the same, like a song that is sung by different voices but is still the same song. And somewhere there’s a girl laughing in the snow and she is beautiful and wise, the most beautiful, and she makes of you a fool, again and again, and you allow her to.
You take her into the park, even though it is late or early and the gates are locked, a thick link chain of iron wrapped around the place where the two gates meet. But you know a way in, a secret way, and you take her with you, squeezing through the bent bars and stealing into a place that is, in those moments, just yours. And on a gentle slope that said once to keep off, and will say so again when the snow has gone, you lie down and make trespass angels with the flap of your outstretched arms and your stiff legs. It is a heaven on earth, you tell her. And fallen angels are still angels, you say to her. And she laughs and makes an angel of her own, smaller than yours but just as perfect. Remember?
And you know you love her. We always do. It is a story that you tell yourself and some stories hold eternal truth. And she wants you to tell her that you love her, to put it into words, to hang those hot breathy whispers on the air like steam or smoke. And you do. You dare to give sound and shape to what you feel, like you are in the dark and no one can see you and so you are briefly brave. And she laughs, they all laugh, and she runs from you and she does not give you your words back again. And too soon the snow melts and the angels are all flown and you must keep off again.
I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But I know this: I know you have loved a girl with a heart as cold as ice and she was the most beautiful girl and the world was white and blank with possibility and now, looking back, you invent all the stories that could have been if only she had been warmer and your heart breasks over and over. It is your story and every boy’s story – remember?
Patricia Ann McNair 
http://judithlindenau.wordpress.com/2014/03/14/march-12-2014-he-did-it-for-her/
I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But there are things that we share. Remember the first snow and not believing that the world could be so clean and so new, like a blank page in a book? Remember tilting your head back to catch the feathery flakes of white on your tongue and they tasted of nothing? Remember our father, your father same as mine, and how he carried us through the white streets, lifted high onto his shoulders, so high we thought we could touch the sky almost, and if we ever did we’d touch soft and cloud and cold, or stars sharp as frost or needles.
And all our memories of snow are the same, like a song that is sung by different voices but is still the same song. And somewhere there’s a girl laughing in the snow and she is beautiful and wise, the most beautiful, and she makes of you a fool, again and again, and you allow her to.
You take her into the park, even though it is late or early and the gates are locked, a thick link chain of iron wrapped around the place where the two gates meet. But you know a way in, a secret way, and you take her with you, squeezing through the bent bars and stealing into a place that is, in those moments, just yours. And on a gentle slope that said once to keep off, and will say so again when the snow has gone, you lie down and make trespass angels with the flap of your outstretched arms and your stiff legs. It is a heaven on earth, you tell her. And fallen angels are still angels, you say to her. And she laughs and makes an angel of her own, smaller than yours but just as perfect. Remember?
And you know you love her. We always do. It is a story that you tell yourself and some stories hold eternal truth. And she wants you to tell her that you love her, to put it into words, to hang those hot breathy whispers on the air like steam or smoke. And you do. You dare to give sound and shape to what you feel, like you are in the dark and no one can see you and so you are briefly brave. And she laughs, they all laugh, and she runs from you and she does not give you your words back again. And too soon the snow melts and the angels are all flown and you must keep off again.
I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But I know this: I know you have loved a girl with a heart as cold as ice and she was the most beautiful girl and the world was white and blank with possibility and now, looking back, you invent all the stories that could have been if only she had been warmer and your heart breasks over and over. It is your story and every boy’s story – remember?