That Night, We Slept Separately

by Stephen D. Gibson

The snow was suddenly thick on the ground the next morning, white, heavy with water. She asked if we had two shovels and I thought of them, one light and plastic, the other heavier, a blade of ragged aluminum. We shoveled together, outside, as snow continued down and the cold grew less bitter. Inside our children threw juice at each other and shared cold chicken with the dog I hated. Often my wife and I divide tasks, the two of us, but that grey morning we worked together, side by side, pushing back the cold. Forging warmth.


Stephen D. Gibson teaches at Utah Valley University.