Jan 25, 2026
When it snows, I build a snowman.
No grand reason. When I wake up and the world happens to be covered in white, I head out to crunch around in it for a bit. I'm not fond of the cold, but snow brings back childhood memories - mostly having to shovel ten inches of it in suburban New York - but still, it makes me feel like a kid again.
So I end up exerting a good deal of middle-aged energy into building a snowman.
Once it’s finished, I get weirdly attached.
So I take a picture, often feeling a little hesitant about abandoning it out there all by itself.
And without exception, my snow friend gets destroyed within twenty-four hours.
If I’m lucky, it’s in pieces but still recognizable.
Most of the time, it looks like it survived a small explosion. No shape. No mercy.
I should get used to it by now since there are no exceptions to this rule, but I don't.
It stings every time.
Why, humans, why?
I mean, it would've melted on its own anyway.
Or maybe that’s why? Because it’s going to disappear anyway?
Call me naive, but I don't understand the urge to destroy it, let alone the choice to casually follow through with it.
Even if it’s just kids messing around, it’s hard to wrap my head around it.
Behind every snowman is a real, vivid moment of joy.
Like most things in this world, there’s a layer beneath the surface that isn't immediately visible.
Some people don't see it.
Some can't.
Some choose not to.
That still feels strange to me.
And yet, I'll build another one next winter, even if I know it won't last a day.
Because it matters to me. Because it puts a smile on my face, and hopefully on a few others, too.
