After shoveling inches of heavy, wet snow from the driveway and sidewalk, I lie down in the driveway and die a little. A light flurry falls through the grey air onto my bare face, my eyes open. I feel the cold driveway leach heat from my body. I keep careful track of how much dying I'm doing. It's a balance, dying a little, dying just the right amount. Go too far and that's it. Ask Dad. He lay down in his driveway five cold winters ago. You pushed it too far, old man. The medics couldn't bring you back. You needed the lazy finger of God, a spark of lightning. The kind of lightning that came in a snow storm three days too late. I doubt it was God, wherever the hell he was hiding. I doubt too it could have brought you back. You died too much. You were gone. Back in my driveway, I thing I know right where you are. There. Down by the street. A cigarette held lightly in your hand as you say your old line. Telling me, stand up, we've got money on you. I get up slowly. Brush myself off. You stubs out your cigarette in the street. A plow roars around the corner, a wave of snow rolling in front of it. That wave crashes down across the driveway, wipes you right away. Gone again. Gone too far. I hang the shovel in the garage. Push the button to close the door. The mouth of the driveway is plowed in. The falling snow has already dusted most of the rest. I look out there. At the assembled dead looking down at the spot where I laid down. A space left clear, black as night, a reverse angel slowly fading away.