My Plow Day

On a clear December afternoon,
Willow Street is still,
the sky orange-gray,
and the street a hushed
symphony of swooshes.

This is my plow day.

I peek out the window
through the curtain of flakes
sprinkling the patio stones
like diamonds,
scoot out the half-opened door,
across the driveway,
and into the garage.
The shovel feels strong
in the grip of my
puffy black mittens.
Just enough time
before Dad gets back.
Won’t he be proud
when he sees what I did?

Time to plow.

My engine starts with a rumble,
and I barrel out of the garage
across the driveway.
Chug, chug, chug.
The snow lies soft and thick
like a polar bear’s fur.
My boots scuff
swooping, swirling paths
in the white drifts.
I see my breath in white puffs.
Cold creeps into the pink place
where my mittens meet
the cuffs of my jacket.

I pick a spot of blacktop,
not too large,
not too small.
Back and forth, back and forth,
I plow row after row
of thick, wet snow
until neat slices
peek from underneath,
and only a faint powder remains.
A truck glides into the driveway,
my dad’s hooded face
beaming at me.
He waves an arm.

Time to stop.

I pull back into the garage,
drowsy from an hour’s work.
His arm wraps snug around my shoulder
and my arms aren’t sore anymore.
Behind foggy kitchen windows,
I see a mug of Mom’s
homemade cocoa
on the yellow counter,
steaming
just for me.

—–   —–   —–

Photo by Chinwe

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Glenn McCarty

Glenn McCarty spends his days training two young ninjas and devising stealthy stratagems. He wishes he could play the banjo.

He is the author of The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson and its companion collection Junction Tales, and can be visited at glennmccarty.com or on Instagram @glennmccarty.

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