mama, snowblowing

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

Blowing snow is a spiritual commitment for mama, the end of her driveway the battlefront of an ongoing war. In fact, the 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 warn her, mama prays for strength. She shakes snow from her hood, stomps her boot like a bull, and eyes the red shovel, her second favorite weapon. Armed with a blower and a shovel, mama will never surrender.

Today’s driver has an unkempt beard, probably a man who cradles tallboys instead of his children, tsk tsk. Van Halen blasts from the plow cab, a song so familiar mama forgets - for just a second - that he is the enemy.

Dangerous, music. She readjusts her hood to cover the red tips of her ears. To mute the sudden desire to sing.

The snow is bright and whipping, burning mama’s cheeks and validating her fury. The plow is gone, disappeared down the street, gone to harass someone else in this hellish war.

Everything is suddenly quiet.

The most vulnerable are sometimes the most violent, mama reminds herself, choking the blower and grabbing the plastic shovel by the neck, positioning into ox guard before attacking the new pile with an almost-religious rapture. When under attack, mama knows the best fuck you is to thrive.