mama, snowblowing

Nose dripping, mouth resolute, mama’s preferred weapon in the war with the city plow is her snowblower, which she shoves through drifts of snow, adjusting the chute to launch comets of snow to the tops of trees.

Blowing snow is a spiritual commitment for mama, the end of her driveway the battlefront of an ongoing war. Tiny bones in her ears are primed to register the vibrations of the plow before the smoking beast makes the corner, depositing snow that was never mama’s at mama’s feet.

When those bones ring with warning, mama prays for strength. She shakes snow from her hood and eyes the red shovel, her second favorite weapon. Armed with Blower and Shovel, mama will never surrender.

Today’s driver has an unkempt beard. Probably a man who cradles beer instead of his wife. His children. A song blasts from the cab, a song so familiar mama almost forgets he is Enemy.

Dangerous, music.

Mama readjusts her hood to cover the red tips of her ears. The snow is bright and whipping, burning mama’s cheeks.

The plow disappears down the street. Everything is quiet.

The most vulnerable are sometimes the most violent, mama reminds herself, choking the blower and grabbing the plastic shovel by the neck. Mama positions into ox guard before charging the new pile with rapture.

When under attack, mama knows the best fuck you is to thrive.