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.
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📬 Twitter: @rebekahhhc224
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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.