Voyaguer

Her bright orange jacket glides across the snow and the skis swish through the icy powder.  She came for the crunch of snow under her skis and the rush of the frostbitten wind against her cheeks.  The pompom bobbles with every step of her skis and her breath condenses in the mountain air.  She doesn’t falter in her step; instead she rushes past me without a single word.  The scent of lilac drifts behind me.  The mountain is her escape, the place where she can unwind and escape the madness of her hectic life as a publisher in New York City.   She comes for the solitude of the pines and the quiet, a sweet relief from the bustle and chaos of New York.  Here the maddening din of taxis and pedestrians late for their 9-5 jobs are replaced by nylon skiers, content to swish by with a passive nod, and the soft creak of the aging ski lift.  She comes to drink hot chocolate in a lodge decked in Budwesier signs and wood paneling, instead of the glass prison of a Midtown Manhattan skyscraper.  She comes to escape from her boyfriend determined to drag her out to crowded rooftop bars with noiseless strangers and pretentious friends, people who would rather talk about the gossip of Jane and Peter, instead of reflections on nature or solitude.  Here she has no one to answer to, nobody to come home to at two AM passed out drunk on the couch and drool pooling out of the corner of his mouth.  He wouldn’t remember her the next morning, regardless of whether she was trapped in the sweltering streets or gazing out at the Adriondacks.  Here she finds peace, decked out in fabrics that whisper of her precense and an elusive pompom that travels all the way down the mountain.

West Mountain (February 23rd, 2019)