Our eight-year old had the flu
last week, when it snowed almost
two inches, which was almost
enough for our snow removal
service to kick in. I’d insisted to you
that we arrange the service after the
eight-inch January snowfall when
we’d shoveled three times—in layers,
but still pulled muscles in our backs
that have lived a collective
99 years.
Our son’s temperature reached
104 degrees on the day
of the new snow. We teetered all afternoon,
on the edge of running him into the ER.
We watched to see if the grape-flavored
chewable Tylenol tablets brought it down,
sometimes taking his temperature by way
of our fuzzy, gray six-month old kitten;
he insisted on curling in tight next to our son
when the fever ran highest. We didn’t know
whether this was from delight in discovering
the warmth of our son’s small hot body
or because some sixth cat sense told him
our boy needed support. I told you how
I’d read that a cat’s purr can heal; and.
I need to believe it’s true from here, in
the middle of a long winter, the kind I
faced growing up along the eastern edge
of North Dakota, where snow banks pile
high and a fierce wind blows all winter
into spring, swirling snow around windows,
masking views, blanketing words. Our
son had the flu last week
when it snowed not quite two inches and you
didn’t shovel the driveway and neither
did I. Now, you’re out of town on business
and I must traverse the sloped driveway to get
the mail. Our son, not fully recovered, waits
in the house.
I can’t see the slick mound of ice hidden under
the snow-covered tire track left by your Jeep when
you first drove over that not-quite-two inches of snow. I
don’t see where it thawed and refroze around the time
our son’s fever broke for good. On the way back from
the mailbox,
my left foot slips, sending junk mail and Valentines
into the air; my right wrist breaks the fall. From the ground,
I see the snow stacked to the left of our driveway, I hear
the crows high on the utility pole laughing
at me. I blame you for not shoveling
the driveway and mentally phone you
in that east coast city where you are doing
the work that economically sustains us. I tell you
my wrist might be broken; I tell you my dad
never let us drive across fresh snow,
even a mere dusting of white, unless
we’d first shoveled. I start to tell you about
my orderly life back in North Dakota,
how it had been somehow better. But
by the time I stand up and head into the house,
I realize this would be a lie. I married the man
who carries a glint of hope in his eye, no matter
what. I married the man who—even though he’s
from Texas—still trusts that Saint Paul winters
will—eventually—end, the man who
believes in watching over his sick son
more than having a cleaned-off driveway.
Heidi Fettig Parton is a recent graduate of Bay Path University’s MFA program. Her writing can be found in many publications, including Angels Flight, literary west (AFLW), Brevity’s Nonfiction Blog, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Manifest-Station, and The Rumpus. Heidi lives outside St. Paul, Minnesota where she is at work on her first book. Find more of Heidi’s writing at www.heidifettigparton.com.
