Snow

We are inundated with snow. It began three days ago and 17 inches later it is still coming down. Slowly, wistfully, as if it does not want to stop but knows it must. I shovel the steps and sidewalk every day. Sometimes twice a day. This is another task Colby and I used to share, that I now do alone. The ritual scooping of piles of snow in large flat shovels, scraping what we can of the ice that is adhered to the cement, then sweeping the shoveled space, and finally the spreading of ice melt in hopes that the next shoveling session is easier. Usually it is. Was. Because now, I shovel alone.

Before, after the shoveling was done Colby and I would make snow angels, snow forts, have an impromptu snowball fight or drive the mile or so to the local golf course and slide, or in Colby’s case, snowboard, down the big hill and across the tiny frozen pond. This is especially amazing as Colby was not at all fond of cold weather. He also didn’t like the thought of snow, although he liked snow itself. Liked playing in it. Now I do none of that, although I would enjoy every bit of it if Colby were here.

Sometimes, if the weather had been warm enough to create icicles on the eaves, Colby would take a long pole and attack the icicles until they had all fallen to the ground. I never had enough upper body strength to manage a pole long enough to hit a second-story eave, but Colby could do it when he was twelve. This year there are not many icicles. So far. It is expensive to bring someone in to knock them down because it is a dangerous job. If you don’t stand out of the way, one of the sharp, icy spears could slice right through you. Wearing thick, padded layers helps, but that also was something Colby was not fond of.

Everything I see here, everything I do, reminds me of Colby, reminds me of his loss. I am back to the numb state, incapable of feeling the anger that so recently permeated my being, incapable of feeling sad, or happy, or much of anything else. I can, however, remember. I can remember that Colby had wonderful times here in Minnesota. I can remember that a week before he passed Colby told me this house was the one place he felt was home. And for that I can, do, feel gladness.