“Ready?” Rosie asks as we shuffle forward in the queue. My blood pounds in my ears as we approach the lift. I shrug, trying to focus on the deep breathing my therapist taught me.
Rosie shifts her ski poles to one hand and puts the other hand on my shoulder. “You got this, Emerson. I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”
I smile weakly. “Thanks. I know.” She squeezes my shoulder.
“Next,” the lift operator says. We move forward, and I somehow get my skis caught in the netting separating the line of people from the lift. Rosie yanks at my hand, but she’s pulling at the wrong angle and the netting stays twisted around my skis.
“Next,” the lift operator repeats. Rosie continues to tug at my hand, and a lift chair passes by unfilled. “You’re holding up the line,” the operator says. Rosie lets go of my hand, looking apologetic.
“I’m sorry!” she calls as the operator guides her to the lift. “See you up there!” Then she’s whisked away.
“Hey, do you need help?” an unfamiliar voice says from behind. I turn my head and see a guy on a snowboard, looking at me with mild concern. I sigh with embarrassment.
“Yes, please.” He takes me by the waist and pulls me out. The operator shoves us in the direction of the lift.
“Oh, we’re not . . .” I start to say, as a chair sweeps us up from behind, “. . . together.” My impromptu rescuer pulls down the safety bar.
“R.I.P.,” he says, chuckling. I force a laugh.
“Yep.”
The snowboarder removes his red beanie, placing it between his legs, then takes out his disheveled bun. Curly brown hair bounces around his shoulders. He starts to redo his bun, holding the hair tie between his teeth.
We’re pretty far off the ground now. I spot a skier lose their balance and fall below. I’m yanked into a memory: a skier whizzing toward me, panic rising in my chest, a sharp pain, cold everywhere, and then darkness. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
“You good?” my companion asks. My eyes pop open as I realize how strange I must seem.
“Yeah, I’m fine!” I say, trying to smile.
He eyes me suspiciously as he tries to wrap the hair tie around his bun. It slips out of his fingers and twirls away in the wind. I gasp, but he just shrugs, pulls another one out of his pocket, and starts over. “Not the first time that's happened, so now I come prepared,” he explains. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Emerson.”
“Emerson . . . cool name.”
“I disagree, but thanks.”
“No, it’s definitely cool. Trust me.” He says it with an oddly high level of certainty. “I’m Ryan. You’re a skier, huh?” he continues, glancing at me as he coils the hair on top of his head.
“Yep.”
“You going all the way up?”
“Uhh . . . I don’t know.” Ryan secures his bun and cocks his head, waiting for me to elaborate. I tighten my grip on my ski poles, hoping they contain a hidden button that will somehow provide an escape from this conversation. We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few moments.
“Why don’t you know?” he finally asks. Oh God. Inhale. Exhale.
“Well, the last time I skied a black diamond, I . . . got in an accident and was injured. Couldn’t ski for six months. I’ve been too scared to try again since. Today I was finally gonna go for it, but I don’t know if I’m ready.” I speak quickly, never meeting his gaze.
Ryan exhales in a white puff, shaking his head. “Wow.” We sit in silence for a minute, until he grabs me by the shoulders and speaks with urgency. “Emerson, you can’t leave yourself hanging! Sometimes you gotta just go for it, whether you feel a hundred percent ready or not. Kumbaya, you know?” I don’t tell him that “kumbaya” doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. “I feel like, if you actually weren’t ready, you’d know,” he concludes. I don't know what to say to that, so I stay silent.
We’re nearing the first lift stop, the one halfway up the slope. “This is my stop,” Ryan says, pulling on his beanie and raising the safety bar. “You’re staying on, yeah?”
I reply before really knowing what I’m going to say. “Yeah.” He pats me on the shoulder.
“You’re awesome.” My stomach warms at the unexpected compliment. Ryan glides sideways off the ski lift, falling over in the process, and waves up at me as I glide away. “I’m fine! Go do it, Emerson! You got this!”
For the rest of the ride, I admire the view and keep breathing steadily, in and out.
When I disembark from the lift, I’m struck by the breathtaking panorama before me. White mountains, pristine and poised, rise from the horizon. The soft blue sky stretches to forever. On the slope below, a downed skier picks themself up from the ground as people zigzag around them. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed this.
“Hey, you made it!” Rosie skis up next to me, smiling. “Ready?”
Ryan’s words echo in my head. You got this. The icy air fills my lungs and I know the answer.
“Yes.”
Then I push off and fly.
Rosie shifts her ski poles to one hand and puts the other hand on my shoulder. “You got this, Emerson. I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”
I smile weakly. “Thanks. I know.” She squeezes my shoulder.
“Next,” the lift operator says. We move forward, and I somehow get my skis caught in the netting separating the line of people from the lift. Rosie yanks at my hand, but she’s pulling at the wrong angle and the netting stays twisted around my skis.
“Next,” the lift operator repeats. Rosie continues to tug at my hand, and a lift chair passes by unfilled. “You’re holding up the line,” the operator says. Rosie lets go of my hand, looking apologetic.
“I’m sorry!” she calls as the operator guides her to the lift. “See you up there!” Then she’s whisked away.
“Hey, do you need help?” an unfamiliar voice says from behind. I turn my head and see a guy on a snowboard, looking at me with mild concern. I sigh with embarrassment.
“Yes, please.” He takes me by the waist and pulls me out. The operator shoves us in the direction of the lift.
“Oh, we’re not . . .” I start to say, as a chair sweeps us up from behind, “. . . together.” My impromptu rescuer pulls down the safety bar.
“R.I.P.,” he says, chuckling. I force a laugh.
“Yep.”
The snowboarder removes his red beanie, placing it between his legs, then takes out his disheveled bun. Curly brown hair bounces around his shoulders. He starts to redo his bun, holding the hair tie between his teeth.
We’re pretty far off the ground now. I spot a skier lose their balance and fall below. I’m yanked into a memory: a skier whizzing toward me, panic rising in my chest, a sharp pain, cold everywhere, and then darkness. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
“You good?” my companion asks. My eyes pop open as I realize how strange I must seem.
“Yeah, I’m fine!” I say, trying to smile.
He eyes me suspiciously as he tries to wrap the hair tie around his bun. It slips out of his fingers and twirls away in the wind. I gasp, but he just shrugs, pulls another one out of his pocket, and starts over. “Not the first time that's happened, so now I come prepared,” he explains. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Emerson.”
“Emerson . . . cool name.”
“I disagree, but thanks.”
“No, it’s definitely cool. Trust me.” He says it with an oddly high level of certainty. “I’m Ryan. You’re a skier, huh?” he continues, glancing at me as he coils the hair on top of his head.
“Yep.”
“You going all the way up?”
“Uhh . . . I don’t know.” Ryan secures his bun and cocks his head, waiting for me to elaborate. I tighten my grip on my ski poles, hoping they contain a hidden button that will somehow provide an escape from this conversation. We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few moments.
“Why don’t you know?” he finally asks. Oh God. Inhale. Exhale.
“Well, the last time I skied a black diamond, I . . . got in an accident and was injured. Couldn’t ski for six months. I’ve been too scared to try again since. Today I was finally gonna go for it, but I don’t know if I’m ready.” I speak quickly, never meeting his gaze.
Ryan exhales in a white puff, shaking his head. “Wow.” We sit in silence for a minute, until he grabs me by the shoulders and speaks with urgency. “Emerson, you can’t leave yourself hanging! Sometimes you gotta just go for it, whether you feel a hundred percent ready or not. Kumbaya, you know?” I don’t tell him that “kumbaya” doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. “I feel like, if you actually weren’t ready, you’d know,” he concludes. I don't know what to say to that, so I stay silent.
We’re nearing the first lift stop, the one halfway up the slope. “This is my stop,” Ryan says, pulling on his beanie and raising the safety bar. “You’re staying on, yeah?”
I reply before really knowing what I’m going to say. “Yeah.” He pats me on the shoulder.
“You’re awesome.” My stomach warms at the unexpected compliment. Ryan glides sideways off the ski lift, falling over in the process, and waves up at me as I glide away. “I’m fine! Go do it, Emerson! You got this!”
For the rest of the ride, I admire the view and keep breathing steadily, in and out.
When I disembark from the lift, I’m struck by the breathtaking panorama before me. White mountains, pristine and poised, rise from the horizon. The soft blue sky stretches to forever. On the slope below, a downed skier picks themself up from the ground as people zigzag around them. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed this.
“Hey, you made it!” Rosie skis up next to me, smiling. “Ready?”
Ryan’s words echo in my head. You got this. The icy air fills my lungs and I know the answer.
“Yes.”
Then I push off and fly.