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​Reminder To Touch Grass​
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The snow felt like it was just going to keep coming,

like the news has been,

but at least you can ski on snow.

I pushed our shovel down the middle of the sidewalk,

clearing a path,

heaving piles of snow onto the parking strip.

I mean, somebody was going to have to do it.

I usually shovel the walk of the house next door too,

and the other house, the other next door,

because I might as well, while I’m out there.

Nathan lives four doors down, on the corner,

and we don’t have each other’s phone numbers,

but we wave when within waving distance,

and stop and chat when within chatting distance.

This afternoon, he was shoveling too,

working his way toward me,

clearing the walks of the two houses next to his.

We met in the middle,

leaning on our snow shovels,

talking about many things,

none of which were national news,

or would even be considered newsworthy

for anyone who didn’t live on our block.

They say to remember to touch grass every once in a while,

which is what we say now

to remind us to do three-dimensional things,

real world things,

the things we do

when we set down our glowing rectangles.

Sometimes you get a few weeks

that feel like a hell of a few weeks,

and you do what you can do,

and maybe it doesn’t feel like enough,

but it’s what you can do now,

and your wheels are still spinning,

and nothing you click on or scroll to

seems to be the answer.

But you remember

that they said to remember

to touch grass:

You shovel some snow,

you sweep the floor,

you go for a run,

you look up at some trees,

you bake a cake,

you talk to someone without using a keyboard to do it,

you water some plants,

you chop wood and carry water, as they say,

and get some dirt under your fingernails,

or feel the wind on your face,

and make a tiny little scratch on the world that says,

I’m still here,

for right now.

I lost track of time talking to Nathan,

finally pulled my gloved hand off my shovel handle,

nudged my jacket cuff up to check my watch, and said,

“Oh shit, I gotta go.”

I said a hasty goodbye,

and jogged down the sidewalk I’d half-shoveled,

telling myself I’d finish it later

after I picked up my kid from day care,

and tomorrow,

more news would come,

and more snow would fall,

and I could decide what to shovel.
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