When I remember father it’s mostly his vicious temper, when the weight of the world ready to cause an outburst, his fits of rage in front of the television. His screams heard was by neighbours, and I often bent my head in shame. But there are other things I remember even more, the sound of skis cutting fresh snow, the full winter moon blue. A sheen to dim the stars. The way the branches weight from snow.
He had been working late, and came out long after darkness fell. We had winter-break from school, and me and my sister spent a winter holiday alone. After a brief meal he asked me if I wanted to take a short ski-tour. “The moon is full”, he said. I nodded and we took our skies. They were freshly tarred, and the snow was cold. We skied over lakes on ice and snow. The snow glistened, saphired by the moon.
The morning after it thawed and I cannot recall that we ever skied together again, yet whenever I see the full moon on snow I hear my father’s voice. “Let us ski tonight”.
zig-zag traces —
a young hare escaped
the cunning fox