We aren’t thinking of a significant reconvention. Ed had been skiing daily (when I had been in Poland in December) in a county park by his farmette and we're thinking it would be a good reintroduction, given the sprained ankle situation (his, not mine), for him to go back there now.
We pull up to this park that borders Lake Waubesa. It’s cloudy outside, and daylight is fading rather fast, but still, I’m thrilled to be stepping out into layers of a white countryside.
I'm zipping up my shoes, Ed reaches for his own.
Where are they? There's one. Where is the other?
No use. It can't be found. Ed recalls his last ski outing. December. Many snowfalls ago. He looks around just in case... No, no second shoe lying about at the side of the road, waiting to be reclaimed. (What a surprise.)
Ed goes back home to scout around there, I head out around the lake on my own. Toward the railway tracks, over the place where the Yahara streams into the lake.
It's quiet here. Very pretty in a monochromatic sort of way.
I push forward and then eventually turn around and head back. And every now and then I pause and consider this: how can one lose a shoe??
