The children made Garasim. Two little ones - Mikhail and Sonya. The whole first Sunday of December. They rolled big snowballs, put them on top of each other, attached carrots for a nose and two coals for eyes. On his head - an old pot from his father. On his neck - a scarf from his mother. And they found a name for him: Garasim.
Garasim woke up. He looked at himself. At the two children in front of him. He smiled inside — because he didn't have a smile on the outside. At first. Until they drew a mouth with a twig.
Mikhail and Sonya played with him for several days. They brought carrots, stroked his sides, talked to him. And then winter began. Lessons, homework. Garasim stood alone.
And so it was Christmas Eve. Garasim already knew one thing. He had seen other snowmen melt in the neighboring yard last spring. He knew: in the spring he too would disappear. Melt. Become water. There would be no more Garasim.
He was crying. With ice. Two small icicles rolled from his eyes, fell into the snow. He stood alone, looking at the moon, and he was sadder than he had ever been in his life.
«"I was just born. And already I have to disappear. Why?"»
Suddenly someone nearby spoke. Quietly, gently. Gerasim turned his head—with difficulty, because his neck didn't bend very much.
Beside him sat in the snow a tall old man in white and gold robes. A golden mitre shone. A crutch was nearby. A white beard down to his waist. Saint Nicholas.
"Garasim, your sadness has called me to you. Why are you crying?"
"Because I will melt. Spring will come and I will be gone.".
The saint was silent. Then he said calmly:
"Garasim, let me tell you something. Do you see that patch of field over there?" He pointed with his crutch. Garasim turned. In the distance, beyond the field, he could see something—as if a vision had opened up to him. He saw spring. Green grass, wild chamomile, a small stream that was gurgling wetly and cheerfully. And near the stream—a beautiful willow tree, whose roots drank the same water.
— This is your spring. Yes, you will be gone as a snowman. But you will not disappear. You will become this water. You will go into the ground. You will be in the roots of a willow, in a daisy petal, in the murmur of a stream. You will be in a leaf rustling in a grove. You will be in a green field.
Gerasim was silent for a long time. He thought. "Will I know this?"«
"You will know. Not with words. But with other knowledge—the kind that is in every root, in every dewdrop. That's even better. You will be everywhere.".
Gerasim sighed softly. For the first time, not from sadness, but from something else. Understanding.
— Thank you, Uncle Nikolai. I'm not so afraid now.
The saint smiled. He raised his crutch. He touched the top of Garasym's head.
— And for now, stand still. Look at the dawn. Listen to the carols from the houses. Winter is still long. Appreciate every snowflake that falls on your forehead. Every day that you exist.
And he disappeared. Gerasim was left alone, but no longer lonely. He stood until spring, looking at the world. And when it began to melt in March, he did not cry. He smiled. Because he knew: he was everywhere now. In the sprouting grass. In the gentle stream. In Mikhail's and Sonya's dreams.
💛 Nothing disappears - everything flows into something new. Even snow, even time, even you.