“Mark–breakfast is slimming down up there,” My dad woke me up.
I rolled over and tapped on my phone. It read: 6:20.
“I’m coming.” I said as I pushed myself out of the top bunkbed.
My dad and I have been crashing in a shared dorm in a traditional ski lodge: wood fires, communal living, feisty conversations, Canadians. As always, it’s been a great time. Our mornings commence by snagging a few pieces of freshly-made blueberry bread and downing a few cups of coffee. We reject showering, opt to brush our teeth, then we funnel into my Subaru and roll over to the ski mountain.
Friday was our final day in Vermont, so we checked out of the lodge and said our goodbyes. With my upcoming departure to California, it’s uncertain when I’ll visit again. When changes of magnitude occur, ordinary events and places shine with value, because of the attached feeling that this might be the last time. You hold your fixated gaze a bit longer and relish the experience a smudge more. Then you carry on.
The slopes were stacked with fresh powder from the previous night’s snowfall. We skied, devoured lunch, and carved the slopes once more. Then, the sun began to dip down closer to the tips of the mountains, and we agreed it was time to leave.
The journey out of Vermont was soothing. I turned up the Grateful Dead as we glided down Route 7, stationed in between the Green Mountains. Opposing headlights flashed by as the mountains began to shrink in the distance. The sun was down and gradually, so were the mountains. Then, the cars behind us picked up the pace, looping around us to jump ahead. A sign on the right side of the highway read: Welcome to New York.