The slow hug of a pillow, as you wander back in conscienciousness.
nothing but tramped out snow.
As your head hurtles back towards its resting place, all those small aches seem to explode.
Each one a reminder, month old memories of ordinary days, still crystal clear.
Minutes flow past, till you jerk yourself out of bed.
Through ritual, you find the least offending set to put on, and slide your ski pants on.
Ten minutes of flipping through the channels and its produced nothing more than irration.
The dishes, take only moments.
The rubbish bins give you not the desired reaction.
As you waddle down with bags slapping your thighs, the air hits your underdressed body.
A cold familiar kiss hits the check after 2 minutes, just as you slip back into the warmth.
Swinging your ski’s to the ground and kicking the snow from your soles, you step in.
With two gigantic explosions you are gliding towards the line.
Its short and filled with unfamiliar faces.
As you shuffle past and sit down, your feet lift and the bar drops.
Finally, you are airborn and moving the most unnatural way possible, up not down.
Every chip, each sratch is a reminder of a tree or rock and a grin hits your face.
For a ski is only new til you step into it and then you take ownership.
Then the unthinkable, the grey starts to to luminate yellow.
Its paradise on a stick.
You imediately reach for your phone, in its familiar pocket.
A quick glance throught the list: too slow, park rat, too drunk last night, perfect.
You quietly laugh to yourself, as your neighbors start to ask for information.
Misdirection is the key.
Then as you near they last post between you and the beloved, you start your ritual.
The Zulus, must have had the same before a battle.
As you drop your lenses, and stand up, your vision narrows.
