The Work of Snow

A blanket of white greets me as I open the garage door. My new snow shovel is gripped in my mitten-shrouded hand. Hot air fills my lungs as I breathe through my thick wooled scarf, knitted by my grandmother. Thermal shirt, t-shirt, sweater all form a barrier to the cold under the shell of my new winter coat. I am prepared to face the cold.

Once the door is fully opened the silence of snow fills my brain. I grin as flakes fall from the heavy clouds. I take a breath. Never, have I ever, shoveled snow. Most of my life I lived in the Sonoran Desert, where sand blankets the ground in the winter. I am eager for this experience.

I grip the handle in one hand and the shaft in the other and thrust the shovel under the two feet of snow that fell overnight and lift…nothing. The snow is heavy. I try again, taking a smaller load this time and toss it into the yard. Soon I work into a satisfying rhythm, removing snow in straight lines across the driveway. I strip my scarf and then my coat as I heat up from the work. I’m really rolling now. Soon, I’ll have the entire driveway clear.

The last shovel I toss as far into the yard as possible with enthusiasm. I picture a clean driveway cut through the snow. I turn around and my shoulders slump. The falling snow has buried half the driveway.