Snow on the sidewalk, front and rear steps, the paths around to the back and the trash pit. Grandpa’s job to clear it. Until he died. Now it remains, this first snow of winter.
We stomp through it, trample it down. Scatter ashes and sand. Manage to make the sidewalk passable, but not for city officials. A citation and a fine, increasing every day.
With the promise of hot cocoa and donuts, my sister and I hack away. Just the official width, no more, no less.
the rhythmic scrapingof Grandpa’s shovel
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose, Issue 2, Winter 2009