Two snowmen sit on a sun-soaked lawn.

The plump one begins to melt first. Its bulk slides downward in chunks, making slushy pools in the grass. The other still has a smile of raisins. A perfect, joyous arc, just beneath a penny nose and two beady, bittersweet-chocolate-chip eyes. Its stoicism is uncharacteristic of a snowman in the sun. We’re going to make it, the raisin smile seems to say. At least until March.

In the driveway next to the lawn, a car horn brings a pulse to the air. The children burst out of the front door, untied shoelaces threatening fresh grass stains; small bruises at worst. The father walks up the path with a soccer ball under one arm and a cooler under the other. The dog is so excited that it runs between his legs, almost toppling him.

Inside the cooler are juice boxes and freeze pops. It’s warm out, despite being the dead of February. That’s what the treats and soccer ball and coming home early from work are for. Behind the snowmen’s backs, where the lawn tilts upward, the father tells the children to spread out. He kicks the ball with impressive form in fancy shoes. They run toward the object they hadn’t seen in months like it’s a pot of gold.

Joining in on the fun, the sun dials up its heat. Remaining patches of snow on the lawn start to sweat, but the glisten fills the family with glee. Now the mother emerges from the house, welcoming the warmth with bare arms and freshly painted toenails. Two sets of tiny hands thrust juice boxes up to her waist—she unwraps miniature straws and fastens them into the foil holes.

While soccer’s put on hold for cold drinks, the plump snowman’s left arm loosens from its socket. The children laugh at the branch waving sheepishly in the breeze. Still, the snowman’s comrade stands steady, smiling, as if to steel both of them. Hang in there. It’s not spring just yet. But the sunshine wreaks its havoc. Water from the dent where the plump snowman’s eye once was runs like tears. 

The children get hungry, fidgety, bored, so the father makes dinner suggestions—spaghetti, hotdogs, brownies for dessert! They jump and clap and run into the house. The kitchen comes alive with warm lights, boiling water, noisy toys, glugs of wine, the clatter of plates and silverware. 

On the outside, however, all goes quiet. The temperature drops. The ground tightens as snow regains grip. An icy wind wheezes as it encircles the snowmen, wrapping them in a cozy coldness. Everything is still; everything is where it should be. And then the front door opens. The dog walks outside, feeling heavy.

One by one, pale-blond paws pound the snow beneath them. The dog burrows its wet nose into the ground, finding a twig, a rock, a few blades of grass that don’t amuse it. So the dog walks behind the snowmen—sniffing, pacing—before settling slowly in front of the one who’s still smiling.

In a beat, the dog presses its snout into the snowman’s gut, leaving a clean, hollowed wound. The raisin smile doesn’t quiver. Still here. A voice from inside the house calls the dog’s name, once, twice, before it becomes distant. 

The dog pauses, turns to its side, and lifts its leg.