Sometimes stories feel like entry points
into essays, and sometimes I think,
I can say that in a poem.
This was one of those times.
Thank you for spending a few of your
precious moments with me today.
Happy shoveling,
Kendall
Over My Head
The snowplow is turning into the
neck of the driveway, and I am
inside, dripping wet, towel tucked
around my chest, and I sense
a panic rising, disproportionate
to the situation, you might say—
but they cannot plow the drive,
not now, not today. I called at seven
in the morning, I left a message,
Please take my name off the list,
I shoveled last night. But now the wide
blades are scraping, and I am naked,
heart racing, searching for pants,
tugging a sweater over my head,
and I am braless when I throw the
door open and see the man in the rusty
red truck (a boy, actually, his beard
stuck to his face in patches like a
child’s art project), a scar of wet dirt
and uprooted sagebrush clawing
through the snow in the clumsy
destruction of his wake, and I yell,
Please, stop! I left a message! And he
laughs like I am crazy, shaking his
head as he backs up, and I wonder
if I will be charged, or if I will be able
to buy the wood chest that I hoped
I could get myself for Christmas
to hold the cut lumber that we are
burning because we couldn’t afford
a cord of wood this winter, not
after the SUV’s rear cylinders
finally gave out, a quarter of a million
miles on her weary odometer. My
husband brings the angular ends home
from his worksite, but the stack’s not
much to look at, so I thought to hide them,
(a frivolous luxury, I know, when the
plastic tote works fine), and it occurs to
me that you might hold that over my head
if I confess that I am angry and scared
about the coming healthcare hikes.
Perhaps you will tell me, you should have
stuck with the tote if the money was that tight.
And of course you are right. But I did
the cruel calculus, you see, and if there are
only six big storms this season, I can justify
the cost of the snowplow service, because
last winter, I slipped a disc shucking wet
snow with my big blue shovel, and the
hospital bill came to more than the sum
total of six plows. And then I thought,
if I bring that down to five, since the snow
is light and dry tonight— easy to manage
on my own—then I can close the lid on both
the wood pieces and my restless discontent.
But apparently, no one got the message,
and now I am standing in the snow, wild-
eyed, my chest heaving, and I can imagine
you smirking as you drive by in your Tesla,
the kind that looks like a renegade refrigerator,
and I imagine you talking about the
sopping wet woman in her driveway,
how desperate she looked— how messy—
as you proceed to discuss the economy
over a thirty-dollar glass of Sangiovese,
congratulating yourself on your hard-won
luxuries. But sure, come on back here and
tell me I should be ashamed of myself. Tell
me what I should be doing instead. I’ll just
be waiting here with my big blue shovel—
but I won’t hold it over your head.
Dearest Kendall,
Oh, my wild-hearted, blue-shovel-wielding snow queen—
I felt this in my ribs, in my own backyard, in my soggy socks by the radiator. Not because of healthcare, mind you, but because oh yes, I too have done the furious math of snowplows and disc slips and "just one more storm" and “maybe if I do it myself…”
My brother is doing it again too—shoveling in silence like a stoic monk, because paying someone just in case it snows seems ludicrous. And then it snows at 7:10, or 8:00 brings the ice rain, and you're stuck anyway with a sidewalk slicker than the smile of a condescending Tesla driver.
As for the braless shame? Oh honey. In Germany, we roam freely! Bare and bold. Braless is our birthright, especially when yelling across snowy driveways at pimple-patched beards in rust-red trucks. Next time? Whisper to yourself, “I’m European today.” Then lift your chin, let the cold kiss your collarbone, and smile like a duchess of defiance.
And if anyone dares smirk from their overpriced rolling fridge of a car? Let them. Because somewhere beneath their triple-insulated self-importance is someone who wishes they had your fire, your poetry, your wild, unapologetic grief turned into kindling.
You’ve done no wrong, my friend. Just lived bravely in this bone-cold world with your chest heaving and your heart wide open.
Twinkle firmly intact,
And glide smoothly into 2026 tomorrow, dearest Kendall.
Always yours,
xo Jay ✨🪵🧣
P.S. That wood box is not frivolous. It's a home for your dignity in plank form. Let’s build altars where we can.
This was a really moving piece, and it made me uncomfortable, but in the way you feel when someone is being mean to your friend in primary school and you found out too late so you have to just tolerate that they felt hurt in that moment. It was moving, and had a universal ache to it.