Rooted, I used to think.

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Thursday, Dec. 08, 2022 @ 4:12 pm
Night Plowing

I lay awake in the dark listening to the grate of the snowplow blade across asphalt, feeling the vibrations of the heavy machinery move through the bed into my body.

I’d forgotten about this, about being awake in the middle of the night while the plows clear the roads.

How many nights did I lie awake listening to the plow and thinking about my relationship? A silent snowstorm. The snow building up around the house. My thoughts building up inside my head.

These triggers appear out of nowhere. Did I know that there was buried trauma related to night plowing?

Did the plow rumble past the house one of those nights that he told me that there was something wrong with me? Was I woken by the plow after one of those extended circular arguments that left me limp and listless?

As I listen to the plow, I’m transported back in time to one of three houses. Which house? The one with blue vinyl siding and the lawn that I so carefully mowed? The yellow house that I never fully unpacked into? The brown one-hundred-year-old house where it all ended?

He started a renovation on that house with no plan for the final outcome. In an attempt to bring more light into the house, he tore the roof from the patio, leaving exposed joists above and a pile of asphalt shingles in the lane. It was never repaired; we sold the place half-destroyed.

I’m weary of this, of never feeling free.

Roots | Shoots