To the Young Couple Building a Snowman on the Aspen Loop

Maybe you were locals, and this was your weekend playground. Maybe you had a little house in Flagstaff and a driveway you had to shovel and special tires and window scrapers and ski passes.  

Or maybe you had never seen snow before. You had that look of joyous wonder about you. Maybe you’d driven three hours from Phoenix just to see this. To gawk at the contrast of the still-yellow aspens, the blue sky, the green pines, the white snow. To feel in your hands the moldable cold that was not rain and not ice but this thing you had read about in storybooks or seen in movies. To hear the squeak under your shoes—shoes that were probably not meant for snow and were making your toes delightfully cold. Maybe you’d bought scarves just for today.  

I was hiking alone, which I often do, which I always enjoy. But today … today, I wanted a snowball fight. And you can’t have a snowball fight alone. 

You were building a snowman not far from where I stopped to make snowballs. I lobbed them one by one at a nearby tree, trying to make a pattern on the trunk with my hits.  

You looked at me, young man, sidelong at first, then more boldly. You smiled. I smiled. You said something to the young woman I imagined to be your girlfriend. I hit the tree with more snowballs. Then, as I slung on my backpack to leave, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. You’d feinted a throw. At me. I leaned down, packing a snowball in a mock-threatening way. We stood there for a moment, neither sure if this was proper etiquette. If it was okay to throw a snowball at a complete stranger. And then, almost at the same time, we did. Your face burst into a brilliant smile. I dodged your snowball. Then all three of us were throwing snowballs at each other. You laughed—pure, childlike expressions of happiness, of fun. I joined in. We threw snowball after snowball, hopping out of the way, squealing now and then as one hit. 

It couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes. I can’t remember how we called a truce. But we did. I dusted off my red-cold hands and waved goodbye across our glittering battlefield.  

We never introduced ourselves. I will never see you again. But thank you, young couple building a snowman on the Aspen Loop, for having a snowball fight with me.  

Melinda Brasher loves writing, traveling, and hiking. Her talents include navigating by old-fashioned map, mashing multiple languages together in foreign train stations, and dealing cards really fast. Find her work in Diabolical Plots, On the Premises, ZNB Presents, and others. Visit her online at melindabrasher.com or melindabrasher.wixsite.com/writer.

This essay is a Short Reads original.