The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Snowman

This morning my son came to me with a ragged carrot in his hand and said, “We should hold a funeral for the snowman.” Seconds later he started crying like we all have cried once over a melted snowman or a sand sculpture washed away by the ocean or a broken toy. As a parent would instinctively do, I started making up a tale.

“Snowmen don't die,” I said, obviously. “Look at the snowflakes. The soul of a snowman lives in those snowflakes.”

“They are too tiny,” he said poutingly. “That's not enough!”