Snow Shoveling

I wonder what you’re thinking, in moments like today when I’m curled up behind thick blankets and soft pillows, staring out the cool glass window watching my neighbor shovel his walkway. I wonder what its like, in this place you call home, where the sun gets up earlier and stays later, warming the ground’s surface like a piece of brown toast.

I drove my sister to school today. I watched the line of cars move slowly, stuttering in a row, heaters on full blast. Each one of those high schoolers rubbing white fingertips along the edges of steering wheels, dreading finals, and me wishing to trade places and start all over again.

I wonder what you’re thinking, though I know you’re not awake, so I wonder what you’re dreaming. If you’re replaying that moment when we met, cups of beer between us half-emptied and that face we exchanged, a silent half-smirk. I wonder if you’re replaying hours before, when you opened the door to your room, saw it as it should be, untouched, blankets still folded neatly, television on the side table. I wonder if you’re replaying the embraces from family, the cozy smell of stone floor and fabric softener, the cool taste of beer down your throat.

Right now I’m picturing you, last winter when I was afraid of love. The wind was fierce that night, and you, standing at my driver’s side window, pretended it was the wind that made your eyes tear up. But we both knew.

As I lay between warm blankets now, my mouth leaving warm breath circles on the cool glass windowpane, I think about you. I wonder If your heart feels just as heavy as mine, as I watch my neighbor move methodically, shoveling line after line of freshly fallen snow.

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