The red oak door of the foyer stood between me and the torrent of snow swirling relentlessly across the veranda. A chilly draft crept beneath and crawled across the tiled floor, tickling my bare toes as I prepared the bright red boots I had received for Christmas. It was a snow day, and I was going to take advantage of it. The boots fit snugly beneath the snow pants, my toes nestled within the fur-lined interior. As I turned the handle, the door burst open with a foreboding gust of frigid air. I was not deterred. Snow men could not, or perhaps, I thought, would not build themselves.

Trudging out to the snow bank that demarcated what used to be our lawn from the street beyond, I began molding the formless white into a world of purpose, a world of scarves and carrot noses and charcoal buttons. The hours of joyful labor engendered a small society of little men made of snow. Each had a name, a story, a job, little snow friends. It was a small world, but a perfect one. A world of harmony and delight, that is, until she came.

A thick yellow hood circumscribed the rosy face hidden within. Little yellow mittens and little yellow boots belied the havoc she would invoke upon the perfect world I had created. She was small, but unremitting. Her aimless wandering about the front yard had finally led her to the first victim, Fred was his name. Giggles poured from her wet lips as a little yellow mitten blasted Fred’s pointy carrot nose from his face. Then came a swift blow to Fred’s midsection, causing his body to give way and crumple into a formless mass from whence he came. Other snow people, perhaps frozen from fear, or perhaps just frozen, soon fell victim to the indiscriminate violence. Terror was raining down upon my society. I had to stop her.

Hidden behind a small mound of snow, I began compacting ammo for the defensive. If I was to save the helpless, I was to act promptly and decisively. I waited for the correct moment. She turned slowly away from her most recent victim, suddenly becoming aware of my presence and locking her eyes with mine. I needed to act. The ball of snow and ice flew from my glove with a speed so tremendous that flecks of dusty white trailed behind like a great comet crossing the night sky. Snow exploded across her rosy face in a giant cloud. I clenched my fist in the triumph of a direct hit. Her fierce determination quickly dissipated into tears and whimpers. I was tempted to strike again but sensed that she had perhaps been defeated. Before the snow that hung on her face could even melt, a woman emerged from the front door of our home. Her mouth was agape, clearly in disbelief that this little yellow demon would destroy so many innocent snow lives, or perhaps awed by my heroic efforts to save them.

“David! What did you do to your daughter?!” she exclaimed.

It was evident she cared not about the slain, whose bodies lay strewn across the yard. I sensed I, myself, might be in danger from this woman. I need to act quickly to pacify what was rapidly becoming an untenable situation.

“She fell in the snow and got her face all wet. I told you not to let her come out here in this weather,” I said.

Tears rolled down the rosy red cheeks, becoming indistinguishable from the spattering of melting snow.

The woman sighed. “Well bring her in, I’ll clean her up.” She turned and disappeared back into the house.

“Come on honey,” I said, “let’s get you inside and warm.” I picked her up in my arms and carried her toward the door. As I stepped into the house I glanced back at the world I had created. A peaceful society ravaged. There were so few survivors. I wondered if they could endure on their own. Perhaps the devastation would make them stronger, I hoped.