When winter comes
White and cold.
Everyone will eventually experience winter. It is not just the arrival of snow and ice, it is the inevitable season we all experience as our bodies age and wither and grow cold.
Not everyone likes winter. I used to like it, loved it in fact. In my downhill skiing days no run was too steep, no mountain too formidable, no day was too imperfect to strap on the boards and go for a run, revelling in the hiss of the skis on pristine white powder and the exhilaration of the ride. Ice crystals kissing my face and the intoxicating shocks as my quads burned while carving unimaginable turns.
Fast forward thirty years. I’m still going downhill, but not on my skis. My back, shoulders and joints all complain when I move, but I’m still mobile. The white stuff is with me all the time now, on the top of my head, day and night, and it’s not melting either. Life is like that at sixty plus. And still counting.
My mind still thinks I’m thirty, but the face that looks back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like the one I remember from those days so long ago. Just as gravity sucked me down the grandest slopes from Alberta to France, Utah and Italy, time is sucking me toward the base of the mountain of life and a time to rest. There won’t be any more trips to the top, I’ve already been there and it was exceptional. Worthwhile all the while. But you can’t stay up there forever.
Little bits of Garmisch, Telluride, Lake Louise, Chamonix and Bormio cling to me like snow that won’t melt. Those were the days! Oh, those were the days. And now, as always, winter is coming and I cannot avoid it.
But this time there will be no spring.
