【小故事】我最喜欢的季节小故事：冬天的雪人

下雪清晨，爸爸的大雪球

清晨我是被亮光照醒的。不是太阳的光，是雪的光。我拉开窗帘，院子里的滑梯、自行车棚、妈妈种的那排月季，全白了。我趴在窗上数雪花，数着数着喊起来：下雪啦！爸爸在厨房里应了一声，声音里带着笑，说快穿衣服，下楼晚了雪就被别人踩脏了。

爸爸下楼的时候拎着他的大手套，我拎我的小手套，还带了两颗黑豆和一根胡萝卜。小区的空地上雪又松又厚，踩上去咯吱咯吱响。爸爸说堆雪人先要滚一个身子，让我滚个小点的。我团了一个雪球放在雪地上推，推出去两米，雪球散架了。我不服气，再团，又散。爸爸蹲下来说，雪球要压实了再滚，像蒸馒头前要先把面揉好。

他滚了一个大雪球当身子，我滚了一个小雪球当脑袋。大雪球滚到后来比我的腰还粗，爸爸推着它走，手套湿透了也不停。我把小雪球抱起来，抱不动，爸爸过来托着底，我俩一起把它安在大雪球上。爸爸又用铁锹拍拍出两条胳膊的形状，我跑过去把黑豆按在雪人脸上当眼睛，胡萝卜按在正中间当鼻子。雪人的肚子圆，脑袋歪，看着有点傻。爸爸退后两步端详了一会儿，又把歪脑袋扶了扶，说歪就歪吧，歪的雪人最神气。

妈妈说照张相吧。爸爸把我搂在怀里，我的脸贴着爸爸的手套，手套是湿的，凉的，可爸爸的身子是热的。我搂着雪人的胳膊照了一张，又单独和爸爸照了一张。回去的路上雪又下起来了，落在我的帽子上，我回头看那个雪人，它站在雪里，好像也在看我们。

那天晚上我做了个梦，梦见雪人在下雪的清晨活过来了，抖抖身上的雪，替我们看了一整夜的家。醒来窗外还在落雪，我隔着玻璃跟它轻轻说了声早安。后来每个冬天我都盼下雪，其实盼的不只是雪，是爸爸蹲在我旁边，教我把一个雪球揉得结结实实的那些早晨。

The Snowy Morning and Dad's Big Snowball

I was woken up in the early morning by light. Not sunlight, but the light of snow. I pulled open the curtain. The slide in the yard, the bicycle shed, the row of roses mother planted, all white. I lay on the window counting snowflakes, and halfway through I shouted: it is snowing! Dad answered from the kitchen, his voice full of laughter, saying hurry and get dressed, if we are late others will step the snow dirty.

When dad came downstairs he carried his big gloves, I carried my small ones, and I also brought two black beans and a carrot. The snow on the open ground of the neighborhood was loose and thick, crunching under our feet. Dad said building a snowman starts with rolling a body, and told me to roll a small one. I made a snowball and pushed it across the snow; two meters out it fell apart. Not giving in, I made another; it fell apart again. Dad squatted down and said a snowball must be packed tight before rolling, just like dough must be kneaded before steaming buns.

He rolled a big snowball for the body, I rolled a small one for the head. The big snowball grew thicker than my waist, and dad kept pushing it even after his gloves soaked through. I tried to lift the small snowball but could not, so dad came over and supported it from underneath, and together we set it on the big one. Dad used a shovel to shape two arms, and I ran over to press the black beans onto the face of the snowman for eyes and the carrot in the middle for a nose. The snowman had a round belly and a crooked head, and looked a little silly.

Mother said let us take a photo. Dad pulled me into his arms. My cheek pressed against his glove, wet and cold, but the body of dad was warm. I took one photo hugging the arm of the snowman, and another with dad alone. On the way home the snow began falling again, landing on my hat. I looked back at the snowman standing in the snow, as if it were watching us too.

That night I dreamed the snowman came alive in a snowy morning, shook the snow off its shoulders, and watched over our home all night. When I woke, snow was still falling outside, and I said good morning to it softly through the glass. Ever since, I have longed for snow every winter. What I really long for is not only the snow, but dad squatting beside me, teaching me to pack a snowball firm and solid, on those mornings.

爸爸记得每一个雪人的名字

我是被一只冰凉的手摸醒的。睁开眼，女儿趴在床边，眼睛亮得像装了灯，压着嗓子却藏不住喊：爸爸快看，下雪了！窗帘缝里透进来的光是白的，我看了眼闹钟，才六点半。可看着她那张脸，我说，起床，堆雪人去。

楼下空地的雪没到脚踝。女儿非要自己滚雪球做脑袋，团一个散一个，急得跺脚。我蹲下来教她，先用手心把雪攥实，攥成一个硬芯，再放到雪地上慢慢推。她照做了，雪球一圈一圈变胖，她跟在雪球后头小跑，嘴里喊着加油，给雪球加油。我在这边滚身子，滚到后来腰都直不起来，笑声倒是一刻没停。雪沫子溅了一身，谁也没顾上拍。有个路过的邻居说，你们父女俩比上班还准时。

雪球安上去的时候歪了，女儿急得快哭。我说歪的才好看，正的那是雪球厂的产品。我们把胡萝卜按上去当鼻子，两颗黑豆当眼睛，又捡了两根树枝插当胳膊。女儿退后三步，歪着头端详，说它有点饿，还有点困。我问叫什么名字。她想了想说，叫团团，因为它是一团一团滚大的。

回家前女儿把她脖子上的小围巾解下来，绕在雪人脖子上，叮嘱我，爸爸你答应我，明天还带我来给团团检查。我说答应你。第二天清晨真去了，围巾还在，团团胖了一圈，女儿高兴得在雪地里转圈。第三天雪停了，团团瘦下去，鼻子歪了，女儿把它扶正，蹲在旁边跟它说了好一会儿话。我站在后头看着，忽然有点舍不得长大这件事。

后来那个冬天我们一共堆了四个雪人，团团、胖胖、二团、末团。女儿如今早就不玩雪了，可每年下雪她还是会发消息问我，家里那边下雪了吗，团团们还好吗。我知道她问的不是雪人。我也知道，我这一生堆过最好的作品，都不是留在纸上的，是留在雪地里、被一个小孩围着转圈的那些圆滚滚的身影。雪会化，可那些清晨一直在我心里下着。

Dad Remembers the Name of Every Snowman

I was woken by a cold hand touching my face. I opened my eyes. My daughter lay by the bed, her eyes bright as if a lamp were lit inside them, whispering yet unable to hide it: dad look, it is snowing! The light through the gap of the curtain was white. I glanced at the clock, only half past six. But looking at her face, I said, get up, let us go build a snowman.

The snow on the open ground downstairs reached our ankles. My daughter insisted on rolling the head herself. She made a ball, it fell apart, and she stamped her feet in frustration. I squatted down and taught her: first squeeze the snow in your palms into a hard core, then set it on the ground and push slowly. She did as told. The snowball grew rounder with every turn, and she trotted behind it, shouting go on, cheering for the snowball. I rolled the body on my side, until my back could hardly straighten, while my laughter never stopped, snow spray all over us and nobody bothered to brush it off. A neighbor passing by said you two father and daughter keep better hours than people going to work.

When we set the head on, it tilted, and she nearly cried. I said a crooked one is the good-looking kind; a straight one is a factory product. We pressed on the carrot for a nose, two black beans for eyes, and picked two branches for arms. She stepped back three paces, tilted her head to study it, and said it looks a little hungry and a little sleepy. I asked what to name it. She thought a moment and said, Tuan Tuan, the little ball, because it grew ball by ball as we rolled it.

Before going home she unwound the small scarf from her own neck and wrapped it around the neck of the snowman, and made me promise, dad, you promised me, tomorrow you still bring me here to check on Tuan Tuan. I promised. The next morning we really went. The scarf was still there, Tuan Tuan had grown plumper, and she spun around in the snow with joy. On the third day the snow stopped, Tuan Tuan grew thin, its nose tilted, and she straightened it for it, then squatted beside it and talked to it for a while. I stood behind watching, and suddenly felt reluctant about the whole business of growing up.

Later that winter we built four snowmen in all: Little Ball, Chubby, Second Ball, and Last Ball. My daughter stopped playing with snow long ago, but every snowy day she still messages to ask, is it snowing at home, are the Tuan Tuans doing well. I know she is not asking about snowmen. And I know the finest works I ever built in my life were not left on paper but in the snow, those round figures a child ran circles around. Snow melts, but those mornings keep snowing inside me.