Traction

A millimeter of snow melts, leaving a thin layer for sliding along the sidewalk. Determination and fading sun light fuels my legs while my knock rattles front doors. "I'm collecting for the alley snow plowing this winter," I say. Some offer cash. Others write checks. One asks me to wait while she runs to her car. Returning, she gives me a tattered stamped envelope. "I've been driving around with this for days," she explains. My arrival hour interrupts mostly television watching. A man rises from a recliner. "It's not my alley," he says. "We've lived here thirty years and never paid," he adds and closes the door. My chest burns and I stomp to the next house. Here, they welcome me inside. Baked monkey bread cools on the stove top. I ask about the Asian artifacts placed around the living room. Purchased, they tell me, during world travels. My heart softens and I plod on. A couple checks land on my porch the next morning. The collected money now covers the bill. I give it to the man who paid the plow service. Going down my list, I point to a couple addresses that did not pay, including that belonging to Mister Not My Alley. "Oh, so and so, he's an usher at our church." I feel complete relief because now he can take it up with his neighbor in the pews.