Faux fur is having a moment, and it's a moment that takes me back to one beautiful winter, chasing snow.
After full days on the mountain -working, playing, it didn't matter, it was all the same-
I'd whip my skis over a shoulder and pass women in fur under twinkling village lights as the sun dropped low. Adults. I remember thinking, they were so adult.
Do you dream of those days too? Even if just for a minute?
Do you dream of the girl who dropped everything under the guise of careful planning, who you picked up at the airport with nothing but her skis, a box, and a bundled up blanket, because you had no bedding?
We were kids. Fiercely, apologetically, kids.
We didn't pretend to be adults when we ate sitting on the counter top. We began to wonder why anyone would need a chair at all.
We didn't pretend to be adults when we chased each other down the mountain, stared breathless at the bottom,
wide eyed and smiling, scooting close in the lift line.
We didn't pretend to be adults, but are we now? Pretending? Or, adult?
Have we lost that red lipped and rosy cheeked girl at the arrivals curb?
I see the mountains in your eyes sometimes, the wildness of them, tucked behind your steady blue stare.
I see you dream of those days too, and I wonder if I've lost you to dreams of wild, dreams of free, dreams of you and me.
Do you dream of those days too?