Nick’s snowmen started as a harmless little winter ritual—one of those things you watch from the kitchen window and think, This is what childhood is supposed to look like.
Every afternoon, the same routine: backpack dumped in a heap, boots fought off like they’d personally offended him, coat half-zipped, hat crooked. Then he’d announce the name of the day’s “employee” like he was clocking in at a job site.
And always the same corner—near our driveway, but still clearly on our property. Nick loved that spot. It was his. He built there on purpose, like a little kid staking a claim in a world where adults decide most things.
He named every single one. He gave them personalities. “Jasper likes space movies.” “Captain Frost protects the others.” He’d step back, hands on his hips, looking proud in that quiet, eight-year-old way.
What I didn’t love were the tire tracks.
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