My mother's house was white with black shutters
and a peeling barn door.
It faced a path that once must have been a street.
Someone had shoveled the path, piling the snow on
the sides so it was waist high. I walked to
the door, carrying my blue duffel bag.
A battered snow shovel was leaning against
one of the white columns on the front porch.


Uncle Roger File 3: Terminals by Judy Malloy
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