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As we sat in the car, the snow and slush covered parking lot surrounding us, we looked out the windows. The people, in their colored clothes, were locking cars, hoisting skis upon shoulders, mistakenly dropping poles they were trying to hold in their armpits.

Our rented ski boots were now mercifully unshackled and removed — our socked feet stretching on the dashboard as if waking from a nap. Coming to life again in the winter air.

One forgets the energy that is taken to ski. After all it's just letting gravity pull you down a slippery hill — no tougher than falling off a log. But then one is reminded by ones knees. When you stop at the middle of a hill, not so much to catch you breath as to let your knees re-gain a little energy and cool down.

We'd planned to spend the whole day skiing, but after an hour or two we'd come back to the car for our picnic lunch. Once the boots had come off, we didn't even have to look at each other; we knew we wouldn't be going back on the slopes again today.

With our seats reclined a bit, she handed me a sandwich

"Just like you said you liked," she said, "in pita bread with bits of celery."
I laughed as she made a face about the celery.

We ate our sandwiches and sighed. And smiled. And wiggled our toes. And laughed at how tired we were and how good it felt to just sit there. And I knew our love for each other was growing still. And I loved how this thing that we had planned was now but a footnote to this moment. The morning would go, but I would never forget this wonderful handful of minutes.

That was, by far, the best sandwich I have ever had.

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