Snow Days

Shovelful after shovelful, I dug a pathway to my front door. My arms throbbed from the labor and my body crumbled into poor posture. Every year this got harder. I took a swig of whiskey laced coffee from the flask in my coat. I looked out at the clean blanket of snow with its sparkling little crystals that played with the sun. They used to play with me. I looked at the ugly path I carved without care and felt the hot sensation of whiskey, coffee, and stomach acid churning inside me.

I shoveled one last scoop, though this time with my hands, and formed a snowball. I looked around, to make sure no one was watching, and then threw it at my house the way my parents would never let me. It hit the brick wall with a satisfying thud, and left behind a packed spot of snow. It was unmistakably the impact of a snowball. I threw another and another after that. My wife came out the front door. She had that look on her face, you know the one, where life has beaten the fun out of you. I didn’t give her a chance to be mad. I threw a snowball right at her, hard.

Her expression moved quickly, but landed on a smile. A real one. She ran towards me and tackled me into the snow behind me, ruining the perfect blanket the way two kids would.

Later that day, my arm hurt, probably from throwing.