Whoever thought a snowman could be warm and fuzzy?
Made of ice cold and poky sticks, it melts in the sun a few hours later, breaking the proud hearts of small children.
The carrot nose is edible, definitely. But a baked or boiled carrot would droop off the head(more) and fall splattered to the ground.
Now the scarf, that could be considered warm and fuzzy. But that's just not viable, coated in snow and out in the elements.
No, there's a secret to snowmen.
They raise their eyes and arms upward in hope,
They may melt, they may disappear, they may break small hearts.
But they create warm fuzzy memories, memories spent with family and friends in the cold, cold snow.
Memories that can last a lifetime. Memories that could save a life, a friendship, a family.
Which is why I say to you, snowmen and irrevocably, incontrovertibly, warm and fuzzy.(less)
"Warm fuzzy," she cooed over the new family pet, a cat, no older than a few weeks at the oldest curled up into her pudgy little hands somehow comforted by the child's incessant prodding. Eyes like wildfire, sitting Indian-style on our living room floor she pattered about with the(more) kitten watching it as though behind glass waiting for its next new trick.
I watched on from the kitchen from over my copy of the Times as the coffee still smoldered in the pot. Watch those crooked steps across the floor, wobbly and imprecise, the clumsy footfalls of a child. Joy of our lives, that accident prone little fool with her dangling auburn locks and listless exploration.
Time erodes, sculpting the proud stride of a woman driven by purpose out of that bouncing, bubbling child. The cat full grown still pushes through her legs, still tries to curl up into her hands as though it were still mere inches in size.
"Warm fuzzy," she coos again, voice deepened with age and adolescence. It arches its back beneath her outreached palms, and bolts away hoping to be chased. Mirrors of time long past, the grays had taken root, the images laid to rest in countless photo albums left to gather dust on the shelf.
I think I'm the only one that still leafs through them. They say I live in the past, but is it such a sin to keep these moments alive in our great narrative? She doesn't remember the day warm fuzzy came to us, but these photos will. As will I. (less)
She hated the hair on her neck. Every morning she would wake up and wax it, as if the red marks on her face were a better alternative.
"I'm like an animal!" she would scream in the mirror, thinking that I couldn't hear her, that I was aslee(more)p while she groomed herself and cut down her self-supplied insecurities.
She could not possibly begin to understand how much those little patches of fur meant to me. When I called her my duckling, "muy pipka", it was not because she was cute, but because of the fuzz on the bottom of her chin... And she was really cute.
At night when I had my terrors, I would wake up and nuzzle myself in her fur, matting it with tears, as if the little hairs could soak up my fear. I kissed them in the morning before she woke up, and then acted like I was asleep when she finally came to.
Those warm and fuzzy hairs were the world to me. I woke up in the morning for those hairs, I lived for those hairs, and at night I dreamt of those hairs. If she knew about my guilty obsession, my fetish that I indulged in so much, she would only hate them more.
So my relationship with the warm and fuzzy hairs stays a secret, and I am the only one who will ever enjoy the feeling of euphoria that I achieved when I buried myself in them. They were safety, and they were home, and I cherished every second I spent in their loving embrace.(less)