The Grafton Voice

The little girl across the street had made him. He was actually the best snowman Eric had seen in quite some time; the three massive spheres that stood atop each other were perfectly round, and got smaller as they rose. He wore the proper snowman attire of a red scarf, top hat, charcoal eyes, carrot nose, and some sort of pipe. He wondered where she had gotten the charcoal and the pipe, since the other items seemed easier to come by. The mouth was a bit crooked, which made the snowman look as though he was contemplating his existence, why out of all the lawns in the world, he was created here. How long would he last? What was his real purpose in life anyway? These questions that plagued Eric now raced through the imaginary mind of the snowman, and Eric decided it would be better off for the snowman if someone would take his magic top hat and run, put him out of his misery.

As he walked up to the house, he gazed up at the blanket of stars that looked as if they came out of nowhere. He immediately spotted Ursa Major, the big dipper, which was directly overhead. Spring is coming, he thought.

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It looked as though he was bowing. Eric saw the snowman, bending as if he was saying good day, or ready to be knighted. His hat was gone now, taken to the ground in a waterfall of sweat brought on by the warm afternoon. But now it was nighttime, and in the glow of the streetlight, he looked regal, elegant. There was grass around him, as if he had run here from some other place that was much warmer, and paused to find real snow, not the small piles of white that lingered after the sun had tried to melt it away. Eric wanted to tell him that it was okay, to have a seat and he’d be right back with some tea, before he realized how silly that was. It was much saner to just think these random thoughts about the snowman pondering things than it was to think of actually having a conversation with him.

It seemed to Eric that he would do just about anything to get away from his school work, and he felt like a child sitting by the window daydreaming about another child’s lawn art trying to avoid it. But there was something about the cold little statue across the street that intrigued him, especially the way he was lit, and the story he seemed to be telling. Eric wondered what the story the little girl had dreamt up for him was about. He assumed she must have made up a story; what little kid could make anything that had the features of a human or an animal and not make that human or animal come to life in his or her imagination. I should write this down, Eric thought. It might make a good short story or something. And maybe it will be so good that someone will read it and suggest that I enter it in some contest, and then I’ll forget that I submitted it and I’ll get some letter in the mail a few months later telling me not only did I win, but I would have it published in some magazine, or some money was coming for me in the mail, or…He paused. He should really make some effort on his reading. Graduate school right after graduating college was not a good idea, but unfortunately, when Eric started something, he didn’t have it in him to not finish. Even if he was miserable. He was glad that he wasn’t in a relationship at the moment, and that every bad one he had had up till then where he had wanted out was ended by the girl, and he was guilt free. He worried that some day he would end up with a girl that would make him miserable after a while, but who didn’t notice, and to whom he would end up having to get married. This bothered him more than the thought of getting some girl pregnant, and then feeling obligated to marry and support her and their child. At least then he’d have offspring to love and play with, rather than just a miserable wife.

*************************************************

He looked out the window and gasped audibly. The morning revealed a headless figure on the lawn across the street, with its stick arms still motioning statically for a hug. The lump of snow at its feet had lost its hat, and who knew where its eyes were. To Eric, it was the first casualty of spring. He was sad that his friend was gone, and felt as though he never got a chance to say goodbye. Frosty always said he’d be back again someday, but a new snowfall would bring about a new snowman, even if the same hat and eyes and nose were used. His friend was indeed gone.

Eric wanted to share his sense of loss with someone, but was afraid they’d think he was nuts. Even his mother, who often mourned the loss of inanimate objects, would most likely smile and nod and rub his back and say it was a shame, all the while wondering if this is why he hadn’t moved out of her house yet. If he put it in writing, then someday, after the world had proclaimed him a genius, they would find his journals about the melting snowman and take back that Nobel Peace Prize. He didn’t want to take any chances.

As he got in his car later to go to work, the little boy next door scooted past on his bike, trying not to fall even though his training wheels still accompanied his ride. The boy stopped at Eric’s car door, and softly banged the front wheel into Eric’s knee playfully.

“He’s gone,” said the boy. “I’m gonna miss him, aren’t you?”

“Who?” Eric replied.

“You know, our friend, Bernie.”

“Bernie?” Eric was puzzled. Was there a stray cat around or something?

“The snowman. I’m gonna miss him. It’s sad the way he went, too. Usually they just melt into a puddle, but he lost his head.” The boy didn’t realize the humor of his statement, but Eric laughed anyway. “What’s so funny? Huh?” The wheel went into Eric’s knee with a short jab, and then the boy was down the street as fast as the little bike with the extra little wheels could take him, which wasn’t very fast at all. Eric sat down and closed the door, and stared again at the half a body across from him, and then at the boy, who had turned around and was heading back home. He watched the boy reach into his pocket, then drop his bike on the side of the road and run over to the snowman. The boy placed something at his feet, then picked up his bike and raced home.

Eric looked down at the grass below the pile of slush and squinted, trying to make out what it was. His eyes finally focused on a plastic ring, one that would come out of a machine that should be spouting out stale balls of gum. A strange sort of tomb marking, but it would do. The last reminder of a friend, who, like so many others, changed beyond recognition in a very short period of time

This story, “The Snowman” was written by Jen Chura and read by Mike Schwabe. This work is Copyrighted in the Creative Commons. You may copy and display this work in its entirety, but only for non-commercial uses, and only if full credit is given to the author.