Yard Sale

While my brothers wander off to search for my father (all-capable fixer of skis and whatever else Mom may have broken this time) I take off down the hill to search for my mother, whose skis seemed to have broken halfway down Upper Mozart at Keystone. I try not to get killed by any beastly and inconsiderate snowboarders in the champagne powder when I notice, my heart sinking into my stomach and my mind automatically assuming the worst, that my mother is not where I left her; she must have moved. I now am separated from my entire family, so I redouble my speed to find her, forgetting about the moguls over on the far left that are easily as tall as I am. Moving way over to avoid the other skiers, I suddenly find – the whole world slowing down to almost a stand-still – myself volleyed through the air, almost tempted to shout “Yard sale!” as I fly, knowing that the results will be a loss of both poles, one ski, one glove and my goggles, and the gain of a new-found confidence in skiing moguls – mostly so that this air-borne stupidity will never happen again.


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