Jin Schofield (9) – STAFF REPORTER
Her hands were cold. Melted snow and brown slush had seeped their way through her gloves and now coated her rose fingers. Not that it mattered much to her. She couldn’t care less about the state of her fingers. Not when she was so close to finalizing her masterpiece.
See, he did not have a name. She didn’t plan on giving him one, frankly. She couldn’t dare disown his otherworldly magnificence with a human name.
So, she went on. Packing in pearly white snow onto him. Constructing this slug-shaped pile of snow that would eventually become something more. Had she ever heard of rolling snowballs? Nope. Did it make her any less proud? Not at all. Hours she continued, dripping gloves, crimson nose, her father speeding up what would have been a week-long process.
It was not long before the shapeless pile of snow was five-feet high. Tall enough she could no longer reach it. As many feet high as she was old. Yet, he seemed incomplete.
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He needed a face, maybe a couple of limbs. Luckily, her mother wasn’t home. Dad and great-grandma were upstairs. No one could stop her from storming into the kitchen.
So, she went. Clad in her jacket, snow pants, snow boots, and a hot pink hat. Carrots, they were in the fridge. Eyes, that would be a more daring journey. Not that she wasn’t up for it. Before she knew it, she was stumbling upstairs, then scouring her room. With a knock on the bedroom door, her great-grandmother discretely handed her a black velvet cat mask. It would have to do. With a shared glance, they agreed they would never speak of this again.
Now, equipped with all she needed, she returned to her masterpiece in the backyard. All that was left now were some arms. Snapping some branches off a nearby bush, she completed his look.
She had risked it all. Left an unmistakable trail of snow in the house. She had been foolish, reckless, and she would pay the price. Yet, it had all been worth it. No amount of time-outs could steal this moment from her. She would never forget being able to bask in the glory of ‘No Name’. No Name, the Snowman.
