It’s Cold Outside

He’s out there, playing in the snow, singing nursery rhymes to keep his spirits high. I can hear him

(crying)

laughing as he packs snow together into snowballs, flinging them high in the air.

It’s cold outside. Doesn’t he want to come in? No. Seize the day, they said. Catch the moment or you’ll forever regret it.

(cold outside, so very cold inside)

It’s warm by the fire, watching out the window at his antics. What’s he doing now? Lying in the snow, snow angels

(my little angel)

on the ground. What now? Looking up, up at me. His eyes are… intense.

(cold)

Warm. Full of childish energy and life.

(dead)

He beckons with his hand. Waving. Urgent. Oh, he wants me to join in? Well, a father should never let his son down.

Outside. Coat. Keys? Inside, of course. Where I left them. Sigh. Locksmiths don’t come cheap.

Never mind - I must play with him.

Where’s he gone?

---

Ah, there in the snow. Where’s his coat? And his skin is

(cold, ice cold and pinched blue)

warm to the touch still. His eyes, deep blue eyes, stare at me. He’d always had beautiful eyes.

(black and cold and gone and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring and staring)

It’s cold outside. Time to call the locksmith.

—
Credits to: TigerHall