Bent Halos
Snow days in SouthCut hit different.
Maybe it was because the houses were so close together, or folks who had SouthCut in their DNA remembered when snow meant you stayed put—the snowplows may show up on day two, and people fought over parking spaces they spent hours digging out of.
Janelle found a half-cleared space near the old rec center on Bowers Street, the one with the faded mural of raised fists and sunflowers that no one ever quite understood. The snow made the fence surrounding the basketball court lean like it had a long day.
She hadn’t told anyone she was coming to town. Not her father. Not the cousin who lived off SouthCut Parkway. This visit wasn’t about them. This visit was about defining if old business was indeed becoming new business again.
After the rec center closed, folks in the neighborhood christened the playground Bowers Park, even though it was just the basketball court and a patch of grass surrounded by old Victorian houses that survived the first round of revitalization in the area, but were talking points in city council meetings
Generations of people had their first kiss in this park or learned to ride a bike here. So many boys first dunked a tennis ball here. Girls jumped double dutch at the edge of the grass. Teenagers learned what not to see. Grown folks learned how to keep moving.
Janelle stepped carefully in the big prints that led to where a swing set once lived for two summers. She tried to control her breathing as the last remnants of the snowstorm that blanketed the state fell, remembering a similar storm almost ten years to the day, when she and the owner of those prints met in this very same park.
“Late as usual.”
His voice stopped her.
She smiled, even though she didn’t want to.
Malik was standing near picnic tables, peeking through the snow. He was bundled up but looked like he belonged outside in weather like this. His shoulders were sharpened on SouthCut corners by frigid winters and sweltering summers.
“You’re just always early.”
She tried not to flirt.
“If you’re on time, you’re late.”
She stopped walking when he said it.
Her father used to coach Malik on the court, now covered in snow. He would drill it into his team that if they were on time, they were late. He meant on defense and in life. She never realized, until now, that Malik was listening.
They stood there, quietly, listening to the wind, and what sounded like Earth, Wind, and Fire coming from the house on the opposite side of the fence. Someone inside was making the most of the snow day.
“You’re back here now?”
She finally closed the gap between them.
“Never left. Not really.”
He shook his head, and that seemed like the perfect summary of everything between the two of them. They grew up three blocks apart —she lived on Garrison Avenue, a sleepy block; he lived closer to the park, on Duncan, where noise and action were part of the security deposit. They went to the same daycare, same schools. Shared the same summers chasing the ice cream truck. The same winters walking the neighborhood with shovels, trying to make a few bucks shoveling snow.
“This park felt so big when we were young.”
Janelle looked around.
“Yeah, I used to feel like I could disappear here.”
Malik’s nod was slow and deliberate.
Then he took off running, and she followed. Their legs were working hard in the deep snow, but they laughed like they were trying to remember what joy felt like. Malik fell, his laugh hit the snow harder. Janelle went down next to him. Her coat was immediately soaked by the snow.
Muscle memory kicked in, and their arms and legs started moving like windshield wipers as they made snow angels side by side. They continued to laugh, completely unguarded, until Malik stopped. After a while, Janelle did too.
Snow settled in the openings of their courts, on their eyelashes, in his beard, and in the quiet space between them.
“You’re moving further away, aren’t you?”
She didn’t ask how he knew. SouthCut taught you to read between the eyes.
“I received a really good offer from a company in Dallas.”
“Damn.”
That felt real.
“This is the kind of job I’ve been working for. I wish it were closer to home, but it’s not.”
She shrugged, even though he couldn’t see her.
“I understand that. You can’t spend your time chasing “what-ifs.”
She wasn’t sure if he was talking about the job or him.
This was the difference between them. She lived in a black-and-white world. His was filled with shades of gray.
“Last time we did this was senior year.”
She was talking to the sky.
“You said my angel looked like it had a bent halo.”
They sat up slowly, snow falling from their clothes. Malik stood first, then helped her up. They stared at the angles pressed as deeply into the snow as allowed, already starting to refill from the weight of the surrounding snow.
“It still does.”
Janelle pointed out the impression that Malik’s head left.
“I guess that’s just me.”
He studied the figure a second longer.
“When would you leave?”
He looked up after a minute or so.
“My start date is March 15th, but I need to pack, find a place there, put my stuff in storage, tie up some loose ends...”
“Is that what I am?”
“What?”
“A loose end.”
“No. You’re...”
She stopped herself.
He nodded.
Seconds dragged into minutes as the wind picked up.
“I need to go. I have a meeting at 1.”
Janelle broke the silence.
Malik checked his watch and nodded.
“Hit me up when you get where you’re going.”
She walked away without looking back, wondering if he meant home or Dallas. He wished he asked her to stay or had the courage to say he wanted to go with her. Instead, he watched her walk away. Again. Malik stayed in the park until the snow filled the spaces where he relived a moment of childhood minutes before, making sure the evidence was erased.