A week into spring, and Pigeon's world was washed in white. Last year at that time, he and mother had sat outside in summer outfits and sunshades, wiggling bare toes in early green grass. We'll make up for this next year, Mother had thought. It seemed she was right. The flakes had come in earnest Sunday evening, falling heavy through the night. It was still snowing Monday morning. They stayed indoors and out of the dull, gray day.
On Tuesday the sun was shining. Mother bundled Pigeon into puffy snow pants and fleece-lined boots. She put socks on his hands and an extra sweatshirt under his winter coat. Outside they squinted against the strong sun. It burned their cheeks. Mother realized they both wore too many clothes; soon everything but their fingertips was hot. Mother worked hard, rolling the heavy, melting snow into three large balls. Pigeon recognized the figure that emerged as she piled them one on top of the other and scraped off any dirt and pebbles collected along the way. He'd read books about men made of snow.
They gave him a carrot nose and pebble eyes and buttons. Pigeon's toy hammer made an excellent pipe. They found a big floppy hat and an old scarf to tie under his chin. Mother snapped two budding branches off a tree for his arms. Then they sprinkled nuts and dried fruit onto his hat and pressed them into his lap. They hoped birds would come to dine there. They also hoped the man wouldn't stay long. It was spring, after all, and the ducks were nesting.
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