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I found a large brown boulder one day, and I decided to bring it in. I put it in our living room and then, to please my wife, swept up the trail of dirt it had left on our carpeting. The big brown boulder sat there like it owned the place. I could almost see it cross its arms. Its top was pointy; it had a big bulging belly and a squat base.

“There is something satisfying and scary about making an angel, lowering your bulky body into the drowning fluff, stray flakes landing on your face. I am seven or eight and the sky looms above me, grey and dead. I move my arms and legs–expanding, contracting, sculpting the snow before it can swallow me up. I feel the cold filter into my head, seep through the wool of my mittens. I swish wider, faster, then roll out of my mould to inspect its form. Am I dead or alive down there? Is this a picture of heaven or hell?”

Winner of the 1995 Editor’s Prize for Essay. This essay is not currently available online.