Today I dreamed of skiing. Each time I closed my eyes, the bright white of the snow rose up from the crusted hill, glittering and hard. My skis scraped, then slid and scraped, with each careful turn down the mountain. After all those years, my body knew how to bend and flex, how to let go and trust gravity and the sun just over the ridge. Even as I boarded the plane in a brown and arid Los Angeles, the wavery morning filled with jet fuel and finality, each time I closed my eyes, the white snow rose up and my body said let go, let go to the questions persisting all the way up the coast. And my body said I love you, I carry you down the jet way and into this foreign time zone. My body said trust the angle of the hillside, the fall line, and the subtle shift of my weight from this foot to that foot, the natural, easy way I make my way down the icy slope, when I stop clenching my muscles and let the body know.