SHOVELING AT NIGHT
The only time we could be together as a family was shovelingat night with the snow still falling, so my father could get
to work on time the next day. The white birds of our breath
rose in the black air. Here, my brother's long silences
didn't matter, covered by the shovel's sharp grate.
I could lose myself in the rhythm of lift and fall
without being called idle or lazy. I bent my head to watch
those white stars fall out of the black sky, stuck out
my tongue to taste the flakes. I wished that it would stop,
that the yellow bus would come, with its flashing lights,
take me to school where I might get a gold star
or a bluebird sticker, away from home, where his anger
simmered like a stockpot on the back burner. Our noses
ran and chapped, fingers became numb despite
their woolen gloves, and our toes turned to ice
in rubber boots. My mother wanted to let us go in,
heat milk for cocoa, skim the thin skin
from the surface, stir in marshmallow creme.
Words flew; the snow kept its silence.
We went on shoveling in the dark.
~Barbara Crooker
