Crossed

At last the snow stops. I step out into the night, bundled. To shovel. Breathe deep. Look up at the sky. It is a strange peachy color.

Dip. Shove. Toss. Dip. Shove. Toss.

Down the stairs, I make my way. At the sidewalk, I see that someone has dumped all the snow off his car, and off the street, onto my sidewalk, where I must now shovel. "You're kidding," I say out loud. I am angry. Shove the snow back where it came from. Later, repent a little and put some near the edge of my driveway.

When I am finally finished, my heart is pounding. I make my way 'round the side of the house. A startled bird "chrr, chrr's" and takes flight. I fetch the sled and walk up the side of the yard, leaving a blank palette of snow for my Elder Daughter. ("Don't step on it!" she always cries.) Under the pine tree, I lie down. Quiet.

The wood-winged bushes are little crosses against the peachy sky. Crosses upon crosses upon crosses. I am SO not You. Sacrificing for the ones who crossed you with worse than a little snow upon your sidewalk. I am SO not You.

I turn over and put my tongue in the snow. Four licks. I turn back over, sit up, stand. The licks have made a little flame shape. And when I lift the sled, there is no snow angel. Just a sort of wedge.

I walk out of my little, little woods, back to the hill, slide. Glide down the edge of the blank palette lawn with a whoosh. Snow goes into my left boot. And I laugh. You make me laugh! Even when I'm cross.