Snowman

A little snow fell. Not much, but enough to cover the whole garden. Mom built you a small snowman—right under the window so you could see it. Maybe to cheer you up.

My throat tightens and it’s hard to breathe when I think back on those days.

Not long ago we were playing cards in the living room. You won again, like always. And that made me happy. I didn’t know how else I could help you.

The snowman is shrinking, melting away. Your vest still hangs in the room. Without you.

Every gingerbread cookie you helped Mom bake suddenly feels priceless. The gifts you wrapped for us. The beds upstairs that you built for us.

Every goodbye was hard, every embrace—feeling you slipping away beneath my hands. I never knew which one would be the last.

It was a heavy Christmas.

The snowman has almost disappeared now, turned into water, then vapor, then clouds. And just as snowflakes will fall again from them one day and cover your garden again, I want to believe that you will always be with us.

I wrote this text on July 20, 2024 at 12:41, but I manually set the publication date to December 2021. Translated from the Slovak original.

🎵 Michelle Pfeiffer - Never Forget (YouTube)