“You give the signal if anyone comes,” my brothers would say. “You’re too little to come in.”
They played ‘snowman’. They’d throw the powdery stuff around until they became three pale ghosts. Standing guard near the gaping fence where they’d clambered through, I’d listen to their breathless laughter.
For years afterwards they’d reminisce, reliving their antics in the derelict factory that was demolished before I grew old enough to join their game.
Tonight I’m on guard again, at another hospital bedside, listening as the last of them struggles for breath.
Outside, soft drifts of snow have turned the world white.
This is my contribution to this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.