The Snow Shovel by the Back Door

The snow shovel stands by the back door, blade down on the concrete, handle leaning against the jamb.

December is the month that keeps it there. The first snow has come and gone and come again, and the shovel is no longer carried back to the shed after each use. It stays on the step, and the step stays tracked with salt and meltwater. In the dark of a December morning, the shovel takes the first pass along the walk, its steel edge catching the frozen crust and sending the scrape up through the handle to the gloves.

The blade is a single sheet of steel, stamped into a shallow curve. The lower edge has been worn to a bright line by pavement and gravel. The paint has chipped around the corners, and the bare metal carries the gray patina of salt and melt. The handle is a straight piece of wood, darkened at the grip, with a crack running from the collar partway down the shaft. A D-shaped grip at the top is worn smooth on the inside curve.

On the back of the blade, a scuffed line runs along the middle where a boot has pushed the shovel. The paint has cracked into small flakes along the rolled edge. When the shovel stands at the door, the lower corners of the blade touch the concrete and the center of the edge does not.

The shovel works in December the way it works in any snow, but December gives it the most work. Wet snow clings to the blade and must be lifted and shaken; dry snow slides off clean and leaves the steel bare. The push of the blade against a bank of old snow bends the shaft just enough to be felt through the wood. The rivets that hold the handle to the blade move a little with each push, and the metal around them has fretted to a dull gray.

By noon the shovel leans back in its place. The blade has pushed a low bank of snow along the edge of the walk, and a skin of meltwater is freezing over the steel. A thin sheet of ice forms along the bottom edge. The next use cracks it off. This is the pattern of December: the shovel is taken, used, and returned; the blade is cleaned, then not cleaned; the snow is moved, then falls again.

At night the shovel stands in the cold. Frost gathers first around the rivets and the rolled edge, then spreads across the steel. The handle holds no warmth from the day. The porch light throws a short shadow of the shovel across the step, and the shadow does not move. The blade is colder than the air around it, and a faint rime builds along its edges.

The shovel stands by the door from the first snow to the last, and in December that stretch is nowhere near over. The shovel leans against the doorjamb, its steel edge rubbed bright at the corners.