It is nearing Christmas. There is snow on the mountains, and when I walk I sink up to my knees in it.
He has taken me to work; he wants to teach me to ski. "When it gets warmer, I'll take you surfing, but for now you'll just have to settle for the snow version," he had said.
My breath comes out in clouds. He is in the lift beside me, no longer wearing his uniform with the Mountain High logos plastered all over it. He is just himself, just the way I love him.
When we reach the top, I slide out of my seat and plant my skis on the ground. He holds me by the elbow to steady me, and leads me to what he thinks is a good starting point.
He walks me through the steps, but I already know most of it from the stories he tells me late at night when I can't sleep.
"I'll be right next to you," he promises, just before we push off. "Don't worry."
"I'm not worried at all," I tell him with a smile. I am not worried; I know he will take care of me. He always has.
When I am gliding down the slope, I do not think much. I only watch the trees fly past me, feel the icy bite of the winter air, watch the snow beneath my feet. It is beautiful up here. My mother used to come here when she was my age, and do exactly what I'm doing now.
I wonder if she is happy that I am here, with him, learning to do what she loved.
YOU ARE READING
Orange Sunday
Teen FictionGrief can be a blur, a loss of sensation, a nightmare you can't seem to escape. But sometimes, it can wake you up. --- I wrote this when I was mourning a relationship. I'm publishing it now to close the door on those feelings.
