Katydid and the Snow Angel

A short story

The winter months have always been a magical time of year for me. As a child, my family would load into our van and drive eight hours to stay at my grandparents’ house over the holidays. Those days were filled with catching up with family, stories and laughter, exchanging gifts, and indulging in delicious treats and cherished family recipes. I often imagine what the holidays on the farm might have been like for my grandmother: being surrounded by frosted expanses of farmland, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the city where we live now. It must have been truly awe-inspiring.

I never got to experience those days myself, but I yearn for the simplicity they evoke. I picture the quiet rhythms of farm life transformed by the magic of winter: the vast, glistening white of the open farmland, the profound stillness of the woods, and the farmhouse glowing warmly against the chilly backdrop of rolling snow-covered farmland. These moments, though only imagined, feel like a bridge to a time when life moved at a slower pace and the beauty of the season could fill the heart with wonder.

Image created with DALL·E

Growing up, we spent many summers at the farm, but Christmas was a whole different story. The air was colder, the farm was quieter, and everything seemed wrapped in a hushed blanket of snow. This year, the drive out felt extra magical. Frost clung to the edges of the car windows, sparkling under the pale winter sun, and the fields stretched out, smooth and white like an untouched canvas.

Mama sat in the passenger seat, twisting around to check on us kids. Rod was already asleep, his head lolling against the window. Chuck had his nose buried in a book, which I suspected was just a cover for him ignoring me. He was a teenager now, after all, and far too cool to be excited about Christmas with his kid sister. I tried striking up a conversation with him earlier, but he only grunted in response. Sighing, I pressed my face against the glass, letting the cold bite my skin. The scenery blurred by: rows of bare trees, fence posts half-buried in snow, and the occasional flash of a barn roof peeking through the white.

"We’ll be there soon," Daddy said from the driver’s seat, his voice steady as ever. "Bet you can’t wait to see the chickens again, huh, Katy?"

I perked up. "Do you think Buster remembers me?" Buster, the farm’s ornery Rhode Island Red rooster, had left quite the impression the last time I visited. I still had the faint scar on my ankle to prove it.

Mama laughed. "Oh, I’m sure he remembers you, all right. Just be careful this time."

The turnoff to the farm came into view, the gravel road barely visible under a layer of snow. The car bumped and jostled as we made our way up the long drive, past the skeletal trees that lined the road like sentinels. At the top of the hill, the farmhouse stood waiting, its windows glowing warmly against the chill.

Nana Ida was already on the porch, bundled in a thick shawl, waving at us as Daddy pulled the car to a stop. I jumped out before anyone could tell me otherwise, my boots crunching in the snow. The air was sharp and clean, and my breath puffed out in little clouds as I ran up to her.

"There’s my sweet Katydid!" Nana said, wrapping me in a hug that smelled like cinnamon and wood smoke. "Have you grown again since Thanksgiving? At this rate, you’ll pass me by spring!"

"Not that much," I said, grinning. Behind me, Chuck and Rod climbed out of the car, both looking less eager to face the cold.

"Well, come on inside," Nana said, ushering us toward the door. "I’ve got cocoa on the stove and cookies cooling on the counter."

"Is Papa in the barn?" I asked.

"He’ll be in soon," Nana said. "You’ll have plenty of time to catch up."

The farmhouse was just as I remembered it: cozy, cluttered in all the right ways, and smelling faintly of pine from the Christmas tree in the corner. I settled in quickly, sipping cocoa and sneaking an extra cookie when Nana’s back was turned. But the pull of the snowy fields outside was too strong to resist for long.

Later, while Chuck and Rod stayed inside—Chuck claiming he needed to finish his book and Rod too comfortable under a pile of blankets—I bundled up and ventured out into the yard. Before leaving, I caught a glimpse of Chuck rolling his eyes as Mama fussed over me, making sure my coat was zipped up tight and my scarf was snugly wrapped around my neck. He didn’t need to say it for me to know he thought I was being childish for wanting to play in the snow like a little kid. “You’re so childish,” he would always say. Maybe he was right, but I didn’t care. I was a kid, and I loved exploring the farm—the snow only made it more magical. There was something about the way winter transformed the familiar landscape into a world of crisp white and sparkling frost that begged to be explored. The fields seemed bigger, the woods deeper, and every step felt like uncovering a secret the snow had hidden just for me.

The snow was deeper than I expected, nearly up to my knees in some places, and the chill seeped through my boots. Each step sent up tiny sprays of snow, the sound muffled in the vast stillness around me. The world felt different out here, quieter than the cozy bustle inside. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like the only person in existence, with nothing but the soft crunch of your own steps and the sharp, cold air against your face to remind you you weren’t dreaming.

I wandered toward the pond, where the snow lay smooth and undisturbed. The closer I got, the slower I walked, as if afraid to shatter the stillness of the moment. That’s when I saw it: a perfect snow angel, right in the middle of the field. Its arms and legs were spread wide, its edges crisp against the snow, and it looked as if it had been pressed into the ground with intention. But the strangest part was what wasn’t there—no footprints, no trail leading to or from the angel, just its solitary imprint in the pristine white.

A shiver ran through me, and not just from the cold. Who could’ve made it? And how?

"Katy!" Nana’s voice called from the porch, startling me. "Don’t wander too far! Supper’s almost ready!"

"Coming!" I shouted back, but my eyes stayed fixed on the snow angel for a moment longer. Something about it felt special, like it was meant to be there for me to find. With one last look, I turned and headed back to the house, my boots crunching through the snow.

Over dinner, I couldn’t stop thinking about the angel. "Nana," I began, glancing at her over my plate, "I saw something out by the pond—a perfect snow angel, but there were no footprints around. How can that be?"

Nana paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. A soft smile touched her lips. "That is strange, isn’t it? You know, there was one winter, must’ve been about your age, when I found a snow angel just like the one you’re describing. I’d gone out to gather firewood and there it was, right in the middle of the clearing. No footprints, no sign of anyone being there but the angel itself."

I leaned forward, my eyes wide with wonderment, and whispered, "What did you think it was?"

Nana set her fork down and folded her hands together, her eyes distant. "I always thought it was my Grandfather looking out for me. He’d passed the year before, and your Great Grandmother, my mother, used to tell me he’d never stop watching over us. Seeing that angel made me feel... safe. Like I wasn’t alone."

Then she looked down at me, her expression softening into a warm smile. "Funny how little things like that can stay with you all these years, isn’t it?"

After supper, while everyone else stayed warm inside, I slipped out again. The air was colder, the snow crunching sharply underfoot. The night had grown still, the kind of quiet that pressed in around you, soft and expectant. I made my way back to the pond, each step leaving its own crisp impression in the snow. The moon hung low in the sky, its silvery light spilling across the field, and there it was: the snow angel, as perfect as before.

The angel’s edges seemed sharper in the moonlight, its arms and legs spread wide in a gesture that felt both playful and serene. The snow around it glittered, untouched and pristine, like it had been waiting there just for me. I stopped a few feet away, not wanting to disturb the moment, and stared. How could something so perfect exist without a trace of how it came to be? I imagined all kinds of possibilities—a sudden gust of wind, a mischievous deer, or maybe something magical after all. But standing there, the cold biting at my cheeks, Nana’s words came back to me.

She’d spoken of Great-Grandpa like he was a part of the farm itself, woven into its stories and secrets. I thought about how little I knew of him beyond the faded photographs in the family albums, and yet, in that moment, I felt closer to him than I ever had before. Maybe it was silly, but I hoped he really was watching, that he could see me now, and be proud of me as his great-granddaughter.

My gaze drifted upward to the moon, so bright and steady in the clear sky, and I smiled. The wind stirred, scattering a fine spray of snowflakes across the angel’s surface. For a fleeting moment, it almost seemed to move, its edges softening as if in farewell. I stood there, frozen in place, my heart full of something I couldn’t yet name, before Mama’s voice carried across the field.

"Katy! It’s getting late! Time to come in!"

"Coming, Mama!" I called back, though I lingered for one last look.

Turning toward the house, I took slow, deliberate steps, as if not to break the spell of the moment. Inside, the warmth hit me all at once, and Nana was waiting in her chair, a twinkle in her eye and a story on her lips.

Looking back to that night, I know now the snow angel wasn’t a message or a guardian, not really. But it held a quiet kind of significance, a moment that etched itself into my memory. Standing there in the stillness, the farm stretching out into the horizon, I had felt the echoes of something larger than myself. The fields and woods seemed to hum with the stories of those who had come before me—their lives, their struggles, their love for this place.

The angel was a reminder, a nudge to hold on to those connections, to remember the hands that had shaped the farm and the family that made it what it was. Even now, I can see it in my mind’s eye, glowing softly under the moonlight, a symbol of everything that tethered us to this place and to each other.

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This story was featured on Top in Fiction! Thank you to Daniel, Erica and the TiF community!