snow tracks for the remains of love: a haiku (and a prose)

snow mountain continues
snow tracks up a mountain

Not beginning’s end
tracks of white so pure and light
heavy on my heart ~~~~~~~An ice storm, following three days of snow has turned the tracks into sheets of glazed ice that shine and shimmer blue in the distant horizon. He begins another climb up the snow covered mountain. The tracks are unseen and he just has to follow by memory of another day, a day of sunshine and green trees. There are holes on the ground made by others’ footsteps. In some he sees water. The trees seem unreal with their green color sticking out of the otherwise empty wilderness. Some are rather young trees, even saplings. He knows he is in the woods. Distance changes when he walks up this slope. He knows where he is heading but he has to make some effort to get there. It does get lonely. After some years of traveling this life, he has asked himself, “Why am I doing this? Why am I not settling down like many others? What am I hoping to leave behind?” He recalls the first line of a book, “I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I’m old, and you said, I don’t think you’re old.”(Marilynne Robinson, Gilead) He is leaving a legacy for her. They do have a significant age gap between them though not as huge as that between the couple in the book. A gap of fifteen years. When they first  met she was 29 and he was 44. He, an established successful senior executive in Wall Street, and she a young medical surgeon posted to a rural farming community. Their first meeting was impossible, like the meeting of aliens, like climbing this mountain on this Winter day. He knows he is not hoping to accomplish another miracle though he believes in miracle. Do not get him wrong, the mountain itself has no magic portion which can give him back his youth. Has he regrets over the life he has with his love? He seems now to have no words of his own. He recalls another quote from his favorite:

What is pertinent is the calmness of beauty, its sense of restraint. It is as though the land knows of its own beauty, its own greatness, and feels no need to shout it.
What is the point of worrying oneself too much about what one could or could not have done to control the course one’s life took?
― Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day

the remains of the day

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