My mother says she will have to go to work tomorrow, and that school will probably be open -- if they call a half-day, father will stay home with me. It is getting dark, so I have one last request -- I want to take some snow inside -- "but won't it melt" says my mother. I want to put it in the freezer, so I have snow all year 'round. My father says that some people eat snow with sugar and maple syrup, but my mother says that is not sanitary, but I can keep the snow in a plastic bag, provided I do not eat it. We sit down to dinner, a hearty dinner of potatoes and meatloaf, and for the first time meatloaf tastes good. For dessert there is something special -- brownies with ice cream, and as I eat the ice cream, I dream that I am eating my snow. In the summer, I...

Every day I come home, make snow bricks, make a snow igloo, and make a snow dog to go with the snow man. But as the days wear on, the snow begins to soften and my beautiful creations of ice and snow begin to look sad, dirty, and I want them to melt, rather than look so imperfect. Soon the snow is nothing but a memory, and I am back to focusing on Christmas, because I still at least half-believe in Santa Claus.
In the summer, when my mother is cleaning out the refrigerator, she finds my snowball. Both of us had forgotten about it, and she asks me if I want it. It looks icy and nothing resembling snow at all, and I tell her to throw it away.