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I waited one day, one day to the hour, before following your trail. I
forced myself out into the cold, down the steps to the front walk, mindful
of the ice hidden beneath deep snow. Before you left, you promised to
scatter pellets of ice melt so that no one would slip and fall. You
promised to shovel too, but now I stand here glaring at crusty drifts of
snow. I shiver though I'm bundled up against the bite of a harsh new storm.
Only my eyes are exposed.
I dig in my shovel, lift your first deep-set footprint, and cast it into the
air. It breaks apart. Heavy clumps fall quickly. Smaller flakes drift
across what used to be our yard. Leaning into the wind, I scoop up another
footprint and think of you arched over her body, exuding passion and heat.
She'll discover the truth soon enough. Your heat is chemical. Like ice
melt, a poisonous salt that burns if exposed to bare flesh for too long.
When the walk is clear, I scatter the salt. It crunches beneath my feet.
My eyes sting from the cold, and I rub them gently. My lashes are moist,
but it's just frost. I'm not crying over you.
At the driveway, your footprints continue — long, narrow depressions with
edges already blurred by new snow. I wade ahead and break apart the crust,
wiping out your pattern, dragging my feet through what's left of yours.
Now only your tire tracks remain. They run toward the street, run deep like
ancient canyons in the snow, but today I am God with the forces of erosion
under my control.
These tracks are stubborn, packed down many times over many days, thawed and
refrozen into place. You'd expect me to give up, go back inside, but I
don't. Instead I slam the shovel down, again and again, gouging creases in
the ice until I'm able to pry up pieces of your tracks from below. When
sweat drips into my eyes, I pull off my jacket and gloves. I feel warm and
strong, insulated by my own heat.
I heave away the last chunk, then lean over the shovel to catch my breath.
Fresh snow skitters across the cleared pavement; sharp, pristine flakes land
on my arms and take hold. Beyond the driveway, your vanishing trail leads
off to the east, dead into the storm. I try to picture where the trail
might lead, but see only a gray descending sky, softened by a bright halo of
falling snow.
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