It’s June. It’s June, and you’re reevaluating what engages your smile. The cold, the velocity, and the hard falls are gone now. For the first time since November, you aren’t sure where your skis/snowboards are. In a few weeks from now, you’ll find them in your closet/garage/backyard. They’ll look at you with despise through rusty edges and frayed sidewalls.
You can’t imagine walking through the doors of a ski shop. The pain would be too great. So it’ll have to wait.
They look foreign and antique now like objects from a past era, useful only to underfunded explorers and dentists.
You rummage through your soul to find the passions you once felt. You hope to replace that passion with another sport, another woman, another man, another place. Your hope slowly festers and rots as you realize you cannot replace it. Any substitute will be a temporary satisfaction as fleeting as ice cream on a hot day or aloe on a sunburn.
What you need is snow. Snow and cold. Snow and cold and mountains. Snow and cold and mountains and friends.
Where are those friends now? Hidden away. Suffering through summer as you are.
You dream of South American or New Zealand or Australian winter. “Maybe I’ll save enough money to make it next year…” As soon as the words leave your lips, you recognize them. You said them last year.
So you wait. You wait for the solstice and celebrate not that the longest day of the year has arrived, but that every day from that day on will get shorter. You long for the equinox when day becomes greater than night.
Whilst everyone else brazenly breaststrokes in the scantily clad orgy of summer, you turn your head. It appeals to you on a primal level, but nothing more. You yearn for deeper satisfaction.
You yearn for the months that end in -ber (or brrr.) You long for friends with snowflakes on their shoulders.
It’s June. It’s June, and you have to let go… for a while.