Content warning
This story may contain sensitive material or discuss topics that some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised. The views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Vocal.
I Made Snowmen with My Children
A short story symbolising the conflict of trying to experience joy whilst grieving.
I made snowmen with my children. Wintry world whipping wind around fingers and faces. Breathless giggles condensing into clouds. Running through the trees, crunching fresh footprints. You stopped making footprints a month ago.
Rolling down hills, building a body, a head, and arms of sticks. Snow flakes stick to our hair. A family run down the hill and I stop to admire the way a frosty sky, with a touch of pink sun makes for the most beautiful lighting in pictures.
Snow makes people present. Work, bills, and lists all fall away. Real world hidden by a pillow soft blanket. I touch the snowman. So cold it hurts my fingertips, certainly colder than you were a week ago when we said our last goodbyes.
Gl0ves get wet. Legs get tired. Little voices reference cold toes and bellies in need of a snack. The kind of appetite that comes in quickly in the midst of running around having fun.
My skin crinkles, feeling every wrinkle and ridge as frostbitten air brushes past. I gulp back a silent sob I stifle, for the world you'll no longer see. I wonder if the same frosty wind is carrying you away already.
With a loving glance to the sky I hope you're proud of the ceremony we put together. Heart squeezes because I'll never truly know. Did you send the snow? I wonder if you're still here, or if they already gathered your ashes from the crematorium.
Then I make snowmen with my children.
About the Creator
Rebekah Crawley
I talk about healing, mental health advocacy, personal development, the human mind, philosophy, spirituality, and more.
Thank you for being here 🤍
📬 Twitter: @rebekahhhc224
Keep reading
More stories from Rebekah Crawley and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Jimmy Wordsmith Vs. The Writer's Block
Jim swished his tea leaves into a flurry with eight swirls of his favourite teaspoon. The gentle clinking of the metal against the side of the cup provided some welcome contrast to the silent stillness in his kitchen on this Sunday afternoon. Returning his buttocks to the grooves in his computer chair, he’d tap a few letters, then delete them. Read something, watch a YouTube video, watch pornography, play some lo-fi. He even tried a little yoga, but today was turning out to be another day of staring blankly at a blinking cursor. Nothing was getting the creativity flowing.
By Rebekah Crawley9 months ago in Fiction
The Bear and the Bridge
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the pipes. Emma sat on her bed, her laptop open in front of her, the cursor blinking expectantly on an empty email. She could hear the muffled sounds of traffic from the street below, a steady reminder that life outside her window was moving forward, even if she felt stuck.
By Zachary Boulanger4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
This was beautiful. You explain grief so well.
Such sadness interwoven between the laughter and the goodbyes. Beautiful tribute to one gone but not forgotten. Hope you are doing well.
Beautifully written.