...because I still love and miss her on the first few days of 2015.
Do you know what else I love? Skiing. The feeling of the cold air brushing against my skin while I fly down the icy mountainside makes me feel so alive! The light flecks of snow from the snowmaking machine touching my face makes me smile, even now when I am back in the warmth of my parents' house. Even those bamboo warning posts, which I woefully ignored before plummeting into a pit of thick viscous snow and completely wiping out, are worthwhile.
As was the mocking I received from my 9-year-old niece after I admitted my fall. This is the same niece who mocked me in her version of my voice earlier, saying, "I don't need a helmet. I have not fallen in over 20 years" after I said the exact same thing.
Ah, I love family. They keep me grounded.
Winter Landscape, With Rooks by Sylvia Plath
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on.
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice
as is your image in my eye; dry frost
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?