The Mountain

The purpose of the trip was to ski. But since I did not ski,
never have, I wasn’t going for that. I went for another
reason.
So when they went out for the day, I was on my own.
First I simply stood there and waited. Looked at their
shoes or the other things they’d left behind. The remnants
of breakfast in the sink. We’d just eaten eggs and toast
we’d found in the pantry of this house. I
listened to their sounds and voices dip into silence.
Out into the outside, the cars, the trees. We were
nearer to Canada.
It was a brilliant winter day. The sun
blasting in the windows off of the snow. I sat down
on the sofa. Got comfortable. Crossed my feet
over one another. Experienced some amount of time, I
don’t know how much. Occasionally, I’d see heads
of skiers glide past the windows. Adults, then just the
tops of the hats or hair of their children. Some sort of back path
through the trees. I’m going to do this all day, I told myself.
I made coffee, read a bit. Went into
all of the rooms of the house. Each bedroom, the bathrooms,
the room with the washing machine and dryer.
Returned to the living room. Then I stopped
trying to occupy myself altogether.
Waited for something to happen. Some sensation
that would inform my next move. This never
happens, I thought. This is never
allowed to happen. The basic act of listening
to one’s mind, moving at its natural pace. Unscheduled,
uninfluenced. Nowhere was that familiar sense
of planning. This and then that. Two hours for this. Followed
by one hour of something else. The imposition
of the things you’ve chosen to love. The dividing up
of great masses. The crisis of boredom. It didn’t exist
for me. I don’t even remember what I thought about,
if I reached any conclusions or clarity about anything. More so,
I remember the pleasure of doing it. Of relenting.
I realized I had to go to the bathroom.
I went in and did it. Turned off the light and emerged. Still,
no one was there. They were skiing, and I had peed.
I waited for something else. I decided to do it
in a wooden rocking chair near one of the windows.
Took my place and looked out. Saw the skiers closer
now. The pairs, families, in their skiing outfits. Gear I
knew nothing about. Didn’t really understand. One or two
went by alone. One without poles altogether. Gliding
along the path, the most obscure movements to steer, grace
in a body.
Eventually, I got hungry. There wasn’t anything
else in the kitchen so I had to leave.
Got in my car and drove down the mountain.
Went into town. There were two
gas stations and a general store. Once inside
the general store, I saw they had a food counter.
I sat down on a stool and ordered beef stew, along with
a ham and cheese sandwich. The beef stew was very
salty, but good. A woman in a hunting cap
made my sandwich very slowly, methodically.
I watched as two families of skiers
undressed themselves at their tables then ordered
huge breakfasts. Their faces red
and most of them fairly fat. Pancakes, eggs to order,
hash browns and so forth. They spoke with
French accents. The griddle full of their food. End to end.
I bought a piggy bank for my girlfriend, a six pack of beer
and left. Went back up the mountain. When I arrived, again,
the house was empty. It was as if I’d never left, or never
been there in the first place. The lamp
still on like I had left it. The bathroom door in the same position.
I closed the door and put the
beer in the refrigerator, save one. Sat in the rocking chair
and drank it. A few more skiers passed. It was getting a bit
darker then. But not too dark to ski. The trees were straight and
branchless. They did not move. I waited.
Finished the beer and allowed it to become
evening around me. Some time
around then they returned. They were tired
and damp. They took off their hats and their
hair stuck to their foreheads. They seemed very
happy, pleased with what they’d done. How they’d
spent the day. They claimed
it had been a good one for skiing. Ideal,
though I can’t say for sure what’s ideal. They asked me
what I’d done and I described it best I could, filling in some
spans of time that seemed impossibly long. I realized
as I spoke to them, as they filled in the living room and started
logs crackling in the fireplace, that I was both ready for them to be back
but also nowhere near ready.