Where Do Snowmen Go?

                              

Normally rain brings a sense of excitement and wonder to my three-year-old granddaughter. But not today.  Ava does not jump up and down, begging  for her multi-colored child-size umbrella or her froggie boots or her unicorn raincoat. Nor does she plead with me to let her run outside so she can jump in every puddle she can find. 

Ava is worried about Bobby.

Today’s rain wipes away the snow–which appeared for Christmas this year–and washes away a snowman: Ava’s snowman. The one she had been yearning to build since the leaves changed colors in October.

The air outside is damp. Ava asks, once again, to visit Bobby, who resided in the front lawn where her great-grandparents live. I do not tell her that her snowman is now a pile of dingy mushy snow, even though I think she suspects this.

I dig through my selection of picture books to find an appropriate book. One which will help me in explaining the loss of Bobby.

Ava finds her own way to cope. She sits down and pulls books off her shelf. “Grandma . . . I know where Bobby is.”

“You do?” I flip through the pages of The Tenth Good Thing About Barney by Judith Viorst. Maybe that would work.

Ava taps my elbow. “Uh-huh, I do. I do, Grandma. Bobby is at The Rainbow. He is working there.”

Oh, that’s good. Bobby is not a pile of slush with his features floating away towards a drain.

“What does Bobby do at The Rainbow?” I ask, with much curiosity.

Ava beams, obviously proud of her wonderful imagination. “Bob–by–is workingatthe penguinplace.” She cups her hands to her mouth and whispers. “He feeds the penguins so he can stay cold and not melt.”

“Oh, that is a perfect job for Bobby,” I tell her.

 “Uh-huh, it is. It is just perfect, Grandma.”

With the knowledge of Bobby having grown up and gone out into the world to find a job, I see hope. My imagination begins to run. Ava hands me a pile of picture books to read to her. She snuggles next to me and pulls Norman, our gorilla, close to her side.

 “Me and Norman want stories, Grandma.”

And so I read and read and read, and in the spaces of time where she is turning the page or pausing to talk to Norman, I write notes in the small notebook I keep by my side.

 I write about Bobby.