Short-lived glory

When I was about seven years old, the secondary school across the street organised a snow sculpture competition. The older students -who would have been about fourteen years old, but to us, they seemed like adults- got together in teams and over a period of two days constructed the most incredible snow sculptures. One team built a dog, another one a magnificent castle. But the winner of the competition was a majestic swan with an elegant, long neck. It seemed to be gliding over an imaginary lake and was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

I walked across the empty school yard with two of my best friends the next day and we stoped to look at the sculptures. We walked around the award-winning swan, admiring its noble neck and gently running our hands over its back. We were so mesmerised by it that we decided to climb on its back and pretend we were riding it over a lake. As I climbed on first and sat in front, with my two friends behind me, I felt exhilarated by the glory of the moment. But when I carefully leant forward, putting my arms around the swan’s neck, the whole neck and head and everything broke off and smashed on the ground. My heart skipped a beat and I jumped off the swan, so shocked that I thought I would have to vomit. Without saying a word, we ran away as fast as we could. I thought I would go straight to hell for destroying something as perfect as the beautiful swan.

The next day, I was having lunch with my family, when my parents started to talk about the barbarism of people who would go and wilfully destroy an artwork such as the snow swan. I felt horrible and sick with guilt, but I didn’t say anything. I thought there would be no way my parents would still be able to love me if they ever knew what I’d done.