“My snowman will be beautiful”, I say, forgetting I’m too old to be so happy.
My body is made bulky by the heavy winter coat and my fingers are getting clumsy, but I grin like a child, giddy with the cold. I mould him; sculpt him out of fresh, white snow until that moment when I feel so freezing I can’t imagine ever being warm again.
Hot chocolate seems so inviting…
“I’ll finish him tomorrow”, I promise, and hurry inside.
But there are some things I don’t understand, like love, war and weather. And tomorrow, a warm front moves in from one of the sultry southern places I have always planned to visit and never did. Moves in, and takes my snowman with it, leaving me a puddle of good intentions.