mama, snowblowing

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

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 mama can see the beast make the corner, dropping its jaw and depositing snow that was never mama’s at mama’s feet.

When the bones in her ears shiver, warning danger, mama prays for strength. She shakes snow from her hood, stomps her boot like a bull, and eyes the red shovel, her other weapon in the war. Armed with a snowblower and a snow shovel, mama will never surrender.

Today’s driver has an unkempt beard, probably an abuser, probably a man who cradles tallboys instead of his children, tsk tsk. Van Halen blasts through the plow’s cab, a song so familiar mama forgets, for a second, that he is Enemy. She shakes herself out of it. Dangerous, music. The song probably written by the devil himself. She readjusts her hood to cover her snow-stung ears, to block the tiny, needling desire to sing.

The snow is bright and whipping now, burning mama’s cheeks and validating her fury. Her nostrils are rimed, hands clawed to the blower. The plow is gone, disappeared down the street. Everything quiet.

The most vulnerable are sometimes the most violent, mama says aloud, choking the blower and grabbing the plastic shovel by the neck, positioning into ox guard before attacking the new pile with rapture.

Because when under attack, mama knows sometimes the best fuck you is to thrive.