For Ann, who shook something loose.

Someone has been building an igloo, in the field beside my building. I watched him from the warmth of my sofa for a little while, the day he started. The field is situated between two high-rises, and it was mid-morning on a Saturday. I have to imagine there were at least a few others like me, who’d gone to their windows to check the weather, then stayed there to watch the scene unfolding below.

Shuffling around on his knees, he gathered snow by the armful and packed it into a black plastic wastebasket, which he then flipped and carefully flexed the sides of, until a smooth, white block appeared. His placement was impeccable: once deposited, none of the bricks needed adjusting. Experienced architect or geometry genius, he knew what he was doing.

I’ve caught the sight of him working at it twice more. Once, I watched as a woman walked her dachshund over to the construction site. I was terrified the dog was going to piss on the igloo, but it just sniffed around a little bit. The woman and the builder (who didn’t stand up) had an animated exchange. Laughter, big hand gestures. She was no doubt complimenting his work—maybe his work ethic, too. It’s been about a week, and I’d estimate it’s less than halfway done. I had no idea igloos were so labor intensive.

The problem is, it’s getting warm. Tomorrow is the last day it’ll be below freezing. If he doesn’t finish it quickly, there’ll be nothing but a circle of slush to prove he’d ever tried. I don’t think it’s going to happen.

And I want so badly to tell him it’s okay. I want so badly to leave a note that says, “This was delightful to see, if only for a few days. Thank you for creating something charming in our backyard.” But snow doesn’t make for a very good bulletin board, and I’m probably projecting, anyway.

Most people like when the sun comes out.