Skiing too Close



Skiing close to the edge,
the soft swoosh-swoosh's of freshly laid powder begs me
wander
toward the landscape marked by a red octagon warning:
"CLOSED: Avalanche Danger".


The rush of exiting the boundary suddenly
grabbed my throat.
Memories,
decades past, of power-dreams press me north
onto the white drifts. Mere seconds before the quiet thunder.


Fresh white shelves breaking with hyperbolic shapes:
spilling, slipping, sliding-sliding-shifting.
Shape-shifting.
My peripheral vision sees from my old goggles:
several feet of powder covering some crud--breaking in slo-mo.


Having hid in a cabin several clicks from town, few knew me.
The day is a hazy-crisp afternoon in late
April
when my corpse is found. There in the gully;
torso curled, as if napping. A few from the Ski Patrol gathered, pondering.


"Know him?" one kid asks. Tall, lean, pimply-faced and self-conscious.
Another boy half shrugs. "Seen him around maybe a few times."
"Jesus,"
says the kid, fishing a Lucky from his shirt. "Looks older than God!"
The only girl offers, "Wasn't there a Vietnam vet missing last February?"


Things crunched along.
The life insurance finally coughed up. It took care of the wife; paid off my
F-150.
But the main thing was being freed of all the shit that slams when
you slide past sixty.


CopyLeft, ©, Gary Kline, 27may14