The snowman smiles his broken-pebble smile as Mildred waves from her window.
By four o’clock, he’d been freshy-built on the village green.
At six o’clock he’s across the street from Mildred’s house, his carrot-nose twitching left and right, as if scenting something. Or someone.
By midnight, he’s outside her door, and Mildred, who’s still awake, lets him in.
“Let’s dance,” says Mildred, for at 89 she seldom gets to dance.
Now Mildred lies blue and cold in her hallway and the snowman, having danced the night and Mildred away, is back in the park, smiling his broken-pebble smile…
Make of it what you will, it’s the way Dale’s lovely photo led me. 🙂 Another great choice from the Friday Fictioneer leader, Rochelle. Thanks for all you do. Now that we live by the sea we don’t get to see snow the way we did when we lived near the Pennines or in East Anglia. So I’ve enjoyed Dale’s recent captures – thanks Dale.