One evening last week Rob and I came home late only to discover that we couldn't get into the driveway because the snow plow had come by while we were gone, leaving a huge pile of icy snow at the mouth of our drive. Rob pulled the car to the side of the road, flipped on the emergency flashers, and we walked to the house to get shovels. And then we returned to the end of the driveway and began shoveling. The conditions were terrible. The headlights provided the only light to see by. It was so cold - 12 degrees. And just the day before we'd both been down and out with the flu. But we really had no other choice, and so we shoveled. The pile had glazed over into a solid hunk of ice; Rob used his shovel to break it apart and I used mine to lift away the pieces. We worked in silence, too cold and too tired to speak, but we worked together. We stood on our little piece of land, in our little beam of light, and we chipped away at the ice. It was hard work, and it was long work, but finally we had cleared a path wide enough for the car.

February so far has been a pile of ice. A huge fucking pile of ice, cold and hard and seemingly impassable. It stole my sleep and my sanity and left me curled in a fetal position. It kicked Rob in the gut and left him doubled over one evening in the kitchen, clutching his middle and moaning. And while it has been a cold sharp icy pile of a month, it has also been a time of tenderness. The month's slippery footing has made Rob and I grasp hands tighter than ever before. I've never been more proud of our partnership. We have taken turns caring for each other, gently and instinctively. We have taken turns being strong. We have taken turns shoveling.

The pile still looms, but we are slowly chipping away at it. Rob breaks it apart, and I lift away the pieces.