maybe if it had been cold she would not.
it had snowed for her sixth birthday, real snow, not just a few flakes melting when they came to rest, rather a thick blanket of whiteness cold and pure and maleable. lucky had of course had a cold. there had been discussion:
she is too sick to play in the cold, she will get sicker.
but her father had a different perspective. it won't kill her. when will she get another chance to play in the snow?
thinking back on it, lucky couldn't remember much. she remembered the bread wrappers on her feet. she remembered the feel of packing the snow. she remembered the photograph of the snowman they built better than she remembered actually building it. three distinct scoops for the body as a nod to traditionalism she guessed, along with a pipe and scarf. had there been a hat? she wasn't sure about the hat. she sort of thought so, but she wasn't sure. the thing that stuck in her mind from the small snapshot which only existed there now was the eyes. they had made the eyes from light bulbs.
why had they done that? it made a vaguely frightening snowman.
did she miss her father? was that what was wrong with her? she didn't think so.
she missed her life with jack.
jack with the beautiful eyes.
jack who she so wanted to understand.
why? why was this man different from all other men?
and lucky heard the old christmas song on the radio.
