…. kid skis on snow and field.
Easter afternoon, we skied on snow slushy in open areas, in the woods icy and pine-needle-strewn, pausing to breathe after the vigorous workout. Little streams ran along the trail. My friend remarked on the understory greening as our skis scraped along.
At the top of Elinor’s Hill, we stood for a moment, deciding which way to travel, and I remembered the winter our friend skiing alone fell on this long hill, breaking his leg, and lay on the snow, waiting. Now, in the warmth, we skied without gloves, my daughters sillily lying in the middle of the trail, dramatically waving their skis over their heads. Easter, and no one else was around, save for a few stray folks.
Later, I spoke with these friends, two thousand long miles away, and I realized they must have called us when we stood in the snow and open field at the top of that field, remarking, Remember when….?
The snow still claims more than it doesn’t. Later that night, under a nearly full moon, my daughter returned from a moonlight walk, exclaiming at the cold.
Buying leeks
and walking home
under the bare trees.
— Buson
