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 frozen comets at the tops of trees.

Blowing snow is a spiritual commitment for mama, the end of her driveway the battlefront of war with the city. Tiny bones in her ears are primed to register the vibrations of the city plow before the smoking beast makes the corner, depositing snow that was never mama’s at mama’s feet. When the bones ring, mama prays for strength. She shakes snow from her hood and eyes the red shovel, her other favorite weapon. Armed with Blower and Shovel, mama will never surrender.

Today’s driver has an unkempt beard. Probably a man who cradles cans of beer instead of his wife. Neglects his children for hard rock, marijuana. Loves a fake breast. A song blasts from the cab, a song so catchy mama almost forgets he is Enemy.

Mama readjusts her hood to cover the red tips of her ears. To dampen the tune. The snow is bright and whipping, burning mama’s cheeks. She glares at the man, who is not looking at mama. He is focused on his crime. Mama glares at the man, then the fresh embankment of snow, like a new body to be mourned and dragged away.

The plow disappears down the street. A dragon disappearing into smoke.

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.