I shovel the snow.
My back aches, my arms are tired and my fingers are cold, but I shovel the snow.
I remember when you shoveled the snow. How it towered so high, my younger self couldn’t see the top.
Did your back hurt too? Was I too young to notice how tired you were?
I shovel the snow.
I know why you slept until the sky ceased its attack of white. Why you dropped your wet, ice covered coat on the ground when you came inside.
Were your arms tired then? From holding me up so I could see the sunlight above the wall you shoveled. Above the wall you couldn’t see yourself.
I shovel the snow.
Watching the raging storm die out in your eyes, I now know why the crystallized shards piled up. Why it was no longer shoveled.
Were your hands numb from gripping the chilled bottle? The bottle that kept you warm enough to get through your cold winters.
I shovel the snow.
I shovel the snow because you no longer can. I shovel the snow again and again because the blizzard rages in your absence.
I shovel the snow because I had no idea how high it could pile up without you.
I shovel the snow.