We had a roofing guy come out to see our ailing flat roof before the last big storm. He shoveled a mess of the previous snow off the roof to better examine the damage.
Then we got socked with another foot-plus of snow, and I sweated every time I passed the second-floor doorway.
We spent yesterday digging out the driveway; I spent the better part of the day so far clearing the flat roof. It's as clear now as its going to be.
I have to be honest; there's plenty of work to be done in the house. Housework depresses me, and I'm not in the best frame of mind right now, anyway. I preferred to be up on the roof, in the sunshine, listening to the robins and cardinals in my backyard, working my grief and aggravation into the heavy labor at hand.
And it just felt good to be, literally and figuratively, pushing it off the roof.
I stood in the sunshine for a few minutes, just enjoying the quiet, and the view that I ordinarily don't get to enjoy.
My little one pounded on the glass, beckoning me to fix him lunch.
So I did. But not before spiking the shovel into a drift below.
That felt better than anything I've done all month.