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 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 vibrations of the plow before mama can spot 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 signal 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. Armed with a snowblower and a shovel, mama will never surrender.

Today’s driver has an unkempt beard in need of a trim, probably a fascist, probably a man who holds pints of beer instead of his children, mama thinks, snippity snip. The Van Halen blasting through his cabin is familiar enough to cause mama - for a second - to forget that he is Enemy. But mama shakes it off.

Dangerous, music.

The snow is bright and whipping all around mama, burning her cheeks and validating her fury. Her nostrils are rimed, hands clawed to the blower. The plow is gone. Things are quiet.

The most vulnerable are sometimes the most violent, mama says aloud, choking the snowblower and grabbing the plastic shovel by the neck, positioning into ox guard before she attacks the fresh pile with rapture.

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