In the kitchen, the smell of coffee pulls me in and I find Dad already in the middle of making a stack of pancakes.
When he glances up, he gives me a warm smile. “Morning, kiddo. Got a request for pancakes. You want some?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, pouring myself a mug from the fresh pot and taking a few sips. The caffeine relaxes my shoulders the moment it makes it past my lips.
Eli chatters nonstop when I join him at the dining room table, his fork waving around in the air as he describes the snowman“army” we’re apparently going to make that will guard our yard from the Grinch.
I nod, half-listening, and lean back when Dad brings out the plate of pancakes and the jar of syrup.
“Dig in,” he says, taking his seat at the head of the table. “And maybe you two should focus on buildingonesnowman to guard the house first. We’ll save the army for another day.”
“Aw, man,” Eli mumbles, stabbing his fork clean through a pancake.
After breakfast, we bundle up and head out into the freshly powdered morning.
The snow crunches under our boots as we step into the yard. Eli dives in, scooping snow with mittened hands and tossing it into the air, his laughter ringing like little bells.
I start rolling the base, my mittens dampening as the snow packs tight together.
We shape our snowman, his body coming out a little lopsided but proudly standing anyway.
He’s perfect,” he declares.
“Perfectly crooked, maybe,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow.
He giggles then digs into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a carrot. “For the nose!”
“Where’d you…?”
“From the kitchen,” he says proudly before I can finish.
Of course.
He jams it into the snowman’s face with such force that I have to bite back a laugh when the head nearly splits in two. “Careful, gentle hands!”
Next come the buttons: two mismatched plastic discs scavenged from last year’s craft stash.
One’s red, the other blue, giving our creation a lopsided, cheerfully ridiculous expression and I love it immediately.
“Something’s missing,” Eli says, squinting up at the snowman.
Then he gasps, darting up the porch stairs and into the house. Flecks of snow swirl inside the entryway from how hard he pushes the door open.
A minute later, he comes back with an old plaid cap and a red scarf I’d forgotten we even owned.
He perches the hat at a jaunty angle and wraps the scarf snugly around the snowman’s neck.
“There! Now he’s fancy,” he says proudly.
I pull out my phone, my fingers stiff from the cold, and snap a photo of Eli standing beside his masterpiece, beaming with his cheeks rosy and his eyes crinkled in delight. It’s the kind of picture I know I’ll look at on hard days.
Proof that happiness can exist even when life feels uncertain.
“You’re a master builder,” I tell him, ruffling his hat.
He ducks away with a laugh. “I’m a snowman expert!”
“Clearly,” I say, chuckling as I pocket my phone. “Now, come on, Picasso. We’ve got to get to the shop before Mrs. Harper hasa heart attack about us opening late and thinks we shut down again.”
