I hate shoveling the walk. I don't even know why I do it now. I guess it's so it won't freeze and I won't slip on it. The one thing I like less than shoveling the walk is slipping, it's one of my phobias. I don't mind falling, it's slipping I hate.

Stepping down off of the white front steps I look around me for the shovel. It's not within sight so I wander around the house to see where I put it last. Unfortunately, I find it. It is leaning up against the house, right under the drain pipe. The shovel is frozen up to its ankle in ice. I try to pull it out but am afraid I'll bend the metal out of shape and never be able to use it again. I have another shovel.

This isn't turning out to be a great Saturday. On Saturdays I like to have baths and read and sit in front of the fire and eat cheese. But I've been busy today. I had to finish filling out some forms for the office that I never got to on Friday in my eagerness to get home and then I had to clean the bathroom and the kitchen and other things and now it's time to shovel the walk. The worst thing is the shovel I have to use. It's about the size of my foot. It'll take me two hours to shovel eight feet of sidewalk. And when I bend over, it strains my back.

But I start to shovel the walk anyway. I clear the snow off of my steps, but it's such strained work and I don't want to do it so much that I take rests every few seconds. On my first rest I look up across the block to the house across the street. The place where I saw the flashing light the other night. And there, shining on the porch, a shimmering sign from God, is a large, red shovel. My rest is over so I go back to work and shovel another step. That's pretty tiring so I take another rest. It's times like this that I wished I smoked so I would have something to do. I take another look across the street at that big red shovel. I'm almost drooling at the sight of it. I shovel off another step and look back across the street. I look back at my shovel and then throw it in the bush.

I cross the street making prints in the untouched snow. Hesitating at the gate of the house, I push it open and strut on up the steps. It's a really nice shovel. I would really like to use it.

I ring the doorbell and wait anxiously, warming my hands up by rubbing my mittens together. A while later the door opens. There is a man in his late fifties standing at the doorway in a warm vest. Hanging from his neck is what appears to be a very heavy, rectangular black box, something you would expect to see in the store of a small shop downtown forecasting the temperature and time. The box says curious in red lights.

My eyes wander up from the box to the man's face.

"uh, hi, I'm Amaljia Beck, from across the street, your neighbor. I was wondering if I could borrow your shovel? You see, mine's frozen."

The sign changes to read beautiful.

"I'll return it," I say.

Trust?

"It'll just be a short while. I'd really appreciate it."

The man nods.

"Great! thanks a lot." I reach forward and touch him on the hands, "I'll return it right away."

Glad, says the sign.

Saying goodbye I grab the shovel and return across the street and begin my work. It goes quickly and I warm myself up just thinking of the bath I'm going to hop into once finished.

There is a snow angel Julie had made in the yard early this morning. One of her one-armed snow angels. I stop to look at it. It's some genetic defect. She can't move her left arm in an arc. If she does she recoils it half way up and then extends it again. The result is a snow angel that has a stump for an arm. But there's something pretty about it…something in its defect that makes it lovelier than any other angel I've ever seen. But I cease to look at it and finish up the walk. Running across the street I put the shovel back.

Snow begins to fall again as I come back, covering up the blemishes I've made in its beauty. But I don't care. I want terribly to relax in that bath. I can taste the sweet water in my mouth. I will make a grand dinner tonight. I am happy.