I push snow on the long walk
with an old shovel my ex forgot
to take with him when he left me
for a taller woman.
I hurry so medics can race to the house
from the road in case my son stops breathing
as he did one night
Snow sticks to the blade of the shovel’s
jagged rim. If I were taller
I could tilt it over the towering bank
but I can’t reach that high.
I want to rest but if I stop now
I’ll see myself:
a short woman fastened to a ruined shovel
losing her way
to the road.
© by Judith Castle.
Used with the author’s permission.