His time was not yet. The Little Snowman would not allow it.
There was a little Eskimo boy that knew how to walk in the dark, over frozen sheets of ice. Guided by his sheltering stars and cautious of predators, he would meander for hours. Numb to the bone marrow with his frozen smile he drifted. The ocean did not move at all during this time of year. In fact, what were waves before, now look like a menagerie of unfinished eerie sculptures. His igloo village was 7 nautical miles away. The sun dared to show his face, but for just a few hours at a time.
It was so cold sometimes that his nose hairs became little Gillette toothpicks in his nostrils. His cheeks were coarser than his baby seal leather vestments, that use to belong to his older siblings. His hands were like beaten baseball mitts. Dried out with cracked skin. Like deep tributaries in a topographic map.
One day, he decided to build a Snowman with his little hands. It came out to be quite the intricate sculpture, but was "reddish" in certain areas. His hands had been cut by the angular chunks of snow and ice he used to build it with. It must of been the blood on the Snowman, when all of a sudden, its head began to rotate. The Snowman's eyes opened to another world, another temporary realm; a window of new senses. His language was unbeknownst to the little boy, but he understood every living breath he uttered. It was innate ancient knowledge.
Many weeks past by, where they played, shared and contemplated together. They spoke of existence, love and nurture. They laughed about food, games and sharing. They cried of mortality, hunger and pain. The bond was strong and there friendship keen. Many gold nugget tips and moments of wisdom where gathered about.
One day, when the little boy return to visit his best friend the Snowman, he could not find him. The little boy did not notice that he was stepping on the stones that he used for its buttons. His carrot nose, was taken by a small arctic scavenger animal. The reflective heat was strong these days, and the ice bergs were cracking. It was like bass music with reverberating echos. Evaporation was in the air. This made his lungs piercingly heavy.
How funny the little boy thought. All that we believe is but for a moment. All that we create is consumed. All that we love is taken away.
The Snowman was no longer here, but at the same time, he was everywhere.
The little boy felt the streams of tears warm his face, tracing and creating little icicles on his walrus scarf. He could still hear the Snowman whisper in his ear, as the frostbite night engulfed him completely.
He gazed at the endless celestial sky, found his star, and insistently jumped on the thin ice very hard over and over again.
His time was not yet.
The Little Snowman would not allow it.