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| You're mine, he says. |
This month, as all, has been one of the good and the not-so. The two of us carving out a day together to split a pepperoni and honey bread and sit on a mountain top, learning halfway through the first avalanche training course how to use a shovel to test the snow. Preparing for what to do in an avalanche at the same time to keep it far away. Stalled beacons, afternoon runs. Pizza crumbs to clean from the oven.
But also: pizza.
Last week, at work, I run into a woman with a brain tumor who is also homeless. I call into the pharmacy and I order her the steroid from the MD, ask what else she needs for today.
Just some words, is what she said.
Me too, is what I thought.
Extra kindness, please, I say to the social worker.
—
A Lorrie Moore quote from my journal:
“There was finally, I knew, only rupture and hurt and falling short between all persons, but the best revenge was to turn your life into a small gathering of miracles. If I could not be anchored and profound, I would try, at least, to be kind.”
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| "May your hands be soft & healing & always warm!" - Martin |
Enjoying your day? is what Martin asks in the snow. When he draws flowers for me in the snow, when he passes the familiar cup of tea. When we’re leaving the valley, skis in hand. When we’re on our way to Guardsman, the mountain top, a sunrise.
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| Enjoying your day? with curious eyes. |
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| Yes, I say. |
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| But especially this morning, over a bowl of muesli and a cup of espresso that Martin pulled, he puts his spoon down and interrupts my sleepy impression to ask: Enjoying your day? |
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| I am now, I tell him. |
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| Nice, he says, takes another milky bite. |
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| Enjoying my day. |
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| I'm yours, I say. |
