My three-year-old granddaughter, Micah, has finally experienced enough snow to make a snowman.

Two snowmen, in fact. Five weeks apart.

The first snow really wouldn’t pack, so we ended up with a little heap of snowdwarf. It was cute and we loved it anyway (see the photo on To Life and Lafo).

The second snow packed beautifully. Micah’s artistic big sister, Scout, took over as snowman engineer and designer, rounding the body and deciding what to use for facial features.

Micah said, “The snowman needs a hat!” She chose the Santa hat from the toybox I keep for the girls. In her words, the “Ho-Ho hat.”

And here you have it. Our merry friend:

That night, as I put our exhausted Micah to bed, she kept stalling.

She fights going to sleep, has always been a restless sleeper. She asks for songs: Frère Jacques. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. She chats about a boy at daycare and calls him “my brother.” She says he’s going to the beach and she wishes she could go, too.

“All right, Micahroni,” I say at last. “It is time to sleep now.”

She twists around, lies still, and is silent for a moment. She looks at the ceiling, the wall. Her eyes are heavy.

Then those big eyes are on me. “We forgot the Ho-Ho hat! It’s outside!”

“Yes, but it’s okay. The snowman can wear the hat tonight. We can get it tomorrow.”

That seems a sufficient response, for she’s quiet again.

Then: “Franna.”

“What, Micah?”

“I don’t want the snowman to melt.”

“He won’t melt tonight, honey. It’s very cold outside. He’ll still be there tomorrow.”

She looks at me earnestly. Deep brown eyes, rosy cheeks.

“I don’t want his face to melt,” she says.

I murmur something soothing, I think, but my mind isn’t on my words.

It’s on the workings of her little mind, already understanding the temporary nature of things, fearing loss…yes, it’s just a snowman. But its face reflects humanity. She cares about it and knows, at three, it cannot last.

I stay with her until she drifts off to sleep and her breathing grows loud.

And then I go to bed myself, praying, I confess, for the snowman not to melt the next day while she’s staying with me… because childhood and life itself are so short. They melt away so soon.

When she goes home, the snowman is still in the backyard, joyful as ever, twig-hands raised in praise, undiminished.

I remember to rescue the Ho-Ho hat. She will remember asking. She remembers everything.

I hope she always will.

*******

with thanks to two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge