My parents’ slippery marriage,
sliding slowly downhill towards divorce,
sometimes stops in mid-argument
when my father calls a winter truce.
He announces a family ski trip,
so that “we can all get to know each other,”
a ludicrous statement, one in which he sees no irony.
His money can’t buy happiness,
but it sure can buy ski packages to exotic resorts
where hot chocolate and cozy fireplaces
delude us into thinking, for a few days at least,
our family, as fragile as hanging icicles, will survive.
My parents, feeling mellow at the inn,
talk about the old days when I was a baby, and
the future presented itself as unblemished as untrodden snow.
While they canoodle, I fly down the intermediate trails,
and then immediately turn around to take the lift up once again.
I come in for lunch, see them holding hands,
pivot, and leave for the mountain directly,
not wanting to disturb the delicate peace between them.
I smile, thinking it may all still hold together,
wishing it would snow all year ’round.