The Weight of White

The house groaned, a settling sound, deep in the gut of the night. Frank heard it, even through the double pane, even over the quiet sigh of the furnace, because everything else was gone. Swallowed. The snow had done it. Not just a dusting, not a polite flurry. This was a goddamn smothering. An inch an hour, the radio had droned, before he’d turned it off, before the world went quiet.

He pulled his Carhartt over a flannel, thick and worn, smelled faintly of old engine oil and woodsmoke. Wool hat pulled low, gloves stiff from last winter. The kitchen light spilled a dull rectangle onto the porch, illuminating the immediate, overwhelming fact of it. Three feet already, maybe more. Against the porch railing, it drifted almost chest-high. The silence out here wasn't a lack of noise, it was a presence. A heavy, cotton-wool press against the ears. Only the soft, continuous hush of flakes landing, impossibly delicate, against every surface.

His shovel, an old aluminium scoop with a splintered handle, felt cold even through his gloves. He leaned into the first bank, the snow dense, wet, not powdery. It groaned, a different kind of groan, and then gave way with a satisfying thud as he pitched it over the railing. The first few scoops were easy. A rhythm, a grunt, a heave. His breath plumed white, hung in the frigid air like ghosts of words he never spoke. His shoulders began to burn after the first ten minutes, the kind of deep, dull ache that promised a sore morning. But he kept going.

He thought about Mary, tucked into bed, probably not sleeping well. Her chest rattled sometimes, a wet sound he hated. The doctor had said, “Keep the path clear, Frank. No falls. Especially not now.” Those words were a weight, heavier than the snow, settling in his stomach, hardening into a resolve that made his jaw clench. He didn't want her struggling, didn't want her taking a spill on her way to the car in the morning. Not with that appointment looming. Not ever.

The world narrowed to the swing of the shovel, the scrape against concrete, the grunt from his throat. Streetlights were faint halos in the distance, smudged and blurred. No cars passed. No dogs barked. Just the snow, falling, falling, erasing the world layer by silent layer. He glanced up once, catching a fat flake on his eyelash, watching it melt into nothing. It made everything feel… temporary. Like his struggles, like her illness, like even the solid earth beneath his boots might just dissolve into this endless white.

He cleared a strip down the driveway, wide enough for two people, then angled toward the mailbox. The snowblower, old and cantankerous, had balked a few hours ago, spewing black smoke before dying with a final, pathetic cough. So it was just him. Him and the shovel, and the relentless, beautiful, brutal silence. He remembered clearing snow as a kid, a game, a challenge. Now it was just… the work. The endless, necessary work that kept the wheels turning, kept life moving, kept the promise.

His back screamed. Sweat ran cold down his spine, despite the biting air. He leaned on the shovel, head bowed, catching his breath. His eyes burned from the effort, from the dry cold. He saw the faint light in Mary’s bedroom window, a warm, yellow square against the deep blue-black of the night. A fragile ember in the vast, cold expanse. It was why he was out here. Not for himself, not for sport. For that light. For what it meant.

The flakes continued to fall, coating the path he’d just cleared, mocking his effort. He sighed, a long, ragged sound that seemed to shiver in the profound quiet. Didn't matter. He’d just clear it again. If it meant she could walk out that door safely, without slipping, then he’d shovel until his arms fell off. He adjusted his grip on the cold handle, the wood rough against his palm, and took another swing.

“Alright, you bastards,” he muttered to the falling flakes, a low growl swallowed almost instantly by the quiet. He drove the shovel back into the drifts, another pile of white earth flying over the edge, another small piece of the world tamed for the morning.