Conditions

I told him the truth, what I really thought, the first thing that came to mind; which I guess, in retrospect, was the absolute wrong thing to do. I mean, the walk had taken an hour, and though time had elapsed before we cracked through, our conversation had hit a very nice stride. As we made our way through the snow I noticed how his hair and clothes were neat yet somehow unkempt, and thought that that was the product of his being blind, living without a mirror. So the impression kind of followed us into the warmth of the restaurant. I would be late for class or work, can’t remember which. When I asked him the time he produced on his wrist a brail chronograph, with a flip up lid and pirouetting mechanism which described the days passing. That’s when I said “that’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen”. He turned and walked away, never having seen the thing himself I guess.

That storm was almost a year before last night’s, and 900 miles South of Stowe. Now, on the lift, I could see rain had mixed with the snow. Below my clacking skis rested the remains of a mountainside turned to ice overnight. The groomers must have slaved through the darkness, running machines over the trails to crush up the shiny surface and render it gravelly corn. In the process all my moguls and landmarks were wiped from the face of the landscape, my hints and reminders into the glades long gone. That was the kind of winter I was having though, disorientation the order of the day.

It wasn’t the ice that left me reeling , I think it was the solitude and loss. It may have been a whole year we were together, yes it must have been so. I had been casual and flippant, inviting the idea of parting into our bed, letting it feast on our trust like a Tartar to veal. I saw nothing but the day beyond, glared unknowingly through both her sorrow and mine.

Jumping the lift wind blew hair in my face, took me back to the blind in Richmond. This very same guy I had seen on many a day, striding with confidence and cane through the vast city streets. Why was he fumbling? When I offered a hand I was grappled in the way blind people do, shunning the palm and clamping my limb just below pit. Before we spoke I realized the reason, saw the snow kept his cane from feeling the curb.

Dropping from the lift towards the tip of a mountain. Getting off the ride well before everyone else. Landing in a clearing alone amongst sloping forest. I skated to get away.

Après ski five hours fifteen shots and one nursing student later I return to my cot. Half asleep I shuffle down the familiar hallway to the bathroom, fall a full flight down the stairs of my new home.

It’s the precipitation. I’m just not together anymore.