铲子刮人行道的声音把我吵醒
越来越多的雪。
一位除雪机司机的儿子，
铲雪是你的专长之一，
就像早晨五点起来喂猫，
填满鸟食罐，
煮咖啡，
给我的手机充电---
一张柔情的目录表
我大部分时间在睡觉。
你是持之以恒的人，毫无悔意的支持者，爱的发狂的人。
我是善于筹划部署的人，难题的请求者，被爱的人。
我们选择街角处的这栋旧房子
不知道我们在里面干什么。（无论谁都那样吗？）
我们一起奋斗，
但癌症让你老得太快
撇下我，自食其力，突然孤单。
现在岁月在我前面延伸
像看不见尽头的人行道，满是雪。
我笨拙地穿上你的旧夹克，戴上帽子
穿上太大的长筒靴，
抓起一把铲子，开始干活，
希望你们中的有些人
会安慰我。
I woke to the sound of shovels scraping the sidewalk:
More snow.
Son of a snowplow driver,
shoveling was one of your specialties,
like rising at five to feed the cats,
filling the bird feeder,
making the coffee,
charging my phone—
a catalog of kindnesses
I mostly slept through.
You were the constant one, the unapologetic booster, the besotted.
I was the strategist, the asker of difficult questions, the beloved.
We chose the old house on the corner
not knowing what we were in for. (Whoever does?)
We battled, together,
but cancer made you old too soon
and left me, the independent one, suddenly alone.
Now the years stretch ahead of me
like an endless sidewalk, filled with snow.
I shuffle into your old jacket, hat,
and too-big boots,
grab a shovel and get to work,
hoping some of you
will rub off on me.
"Shoveling" by Ann Harrington. © Ann Harrington. Reprinted with permission of the author.
