Ward McGee

Etched with the passage of time, lines fanning from eyes that once sparkled with reckless youth, a softness around a chin that used to be sharply defined. Yet, beneath the patina of age, he saw the echo of the skis who once danced freely, smelling of ‘fluoro ski wax and cheap grappa. A faint glint playing on edges that were once keen and sharp, now a little thinner, a little faded. Rusty. They stood there, two age-worn relics, 30 plus years gone, briefly illuminated by the fleeting, bittersweet ghost of who they once were.