by David MacWilliams

It feels like someone invisible is giving me a bear hug, this constriction. By habit I lay my palm atop my chest, a gesture I forget to hide from my wife; it frightens her. The cardiologist has ordered me not to exert myself since the heart attack in October.

Christy points a gloved finger at me. “You just stay inside. I’ll shovel the driveway.” She smiles and shuts the front door behind her. Christy won’t let me outside, not even to offer moral support. I might slip, she says, and then struggle getting back to my feet. I tell her she worries too much, that my heart is fine. She doesn’t believe me.

From our bay window, I watch her haul the heavy snow shovel down the front steps. She is a short woman, making it seem even larger in her hands, and she’s grown a little stout after all these years, so she’s in no shape to do such work. She’s wearing my oversized red down jacket. That and her woolen cap are quickly dusted with still falling powder. Over a foot has fallen judging from the amount on the roof of our car. In some places the drifts must be three feet high. A gust of wind snaps across our yard whipping up a dense white veil, and my wife vanishes for a moment within the swirl.

Twenty minutes later, she’s only managed to create a path from the steps to the car. She stands up straight with one hand on her back, a posture I’d make sometimes. Her back and shoulders will ache later. I’ll insist she take some ibuprofen when she’s done as she used to insist of me. A truck lumbers past our driveway plowing a wall across the entrance. My wife shakes her head and raises her palms as if she’s asking the driver why he had to do that. I can’t recall how often that happened to me. It never really bothered me, though. May be strange to say, but I liked the hard work. Always did.

Christy’s tabby sits on the window apron. I gently scuff the underside of his chin. I hold a cup of cold coffee in my other hand. She asked me to make a fresh pot and I forgot. She brewed better coffee, but now that’s my job, while her jobs are those I would do. Raking leaves, cleaning the gutters, shoveling the snow.

I lift her cat down from the window and take my cold cup to the kitchen. Behind me the door opens and a blast of chill air gusts round the jamb. Christy stomps the snow off her boots on the towel I left by the door. Her face is ruddy.

“Colder than a witch’s tit,” she says with a mischievous grin, something I might say whenever I came into the warmth. It sounds funny coming from her. Always proper and old-fashioned in her way, she never mentions anatomy that a bathing suit would cover. I should laugh.

I ask her, did she finish already?

“You kidding?” She shakes my jacket off and hangs it on a peg by the door. “I’m freezing my buns off out there. Have you made any fresh coffee? And speaking of buns, would you mind heating up one of those Kroger cinnamon rolls?”

I should be grateful.

Christy stomps past the kitchen to the bedroom to change out of her wet clothing. I stand above the coffee maker. I pour water into the reservoir and with a teaspoon shovel the coffee into a filter. I feel that constriction in my chest as if my blood flow is compressed by a benchtop vise. At the kitchen table we’ll talk about the weather, about hiring a snow shoveling service from now on, and about the light chores I’ll do this afternoon. Dishes. Laundry. Nothing heavy, she’ll scold. As we talk, my chest will tighten.

Not doing the heavy work, that’s what’s killing me. It’s this new role I play after forty years of marriage. She doesn’t understand. Later when she’s napping, I’ll step outside into the cold and inhale deeply, feeling the snowflakes flit against my face. I’ll sift the stuff through my bare fingers and trudge through the snowdrifts, leaving long tracks. Then I’ll shovel like I’m digging my way out of the grave.

Photo by Tomas Tuma on Unsplash