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A pile of clothes lies untouched in the corner of my room. A year ago grows closer. I wake up to find the world is all highlights and shadows. The forecast snow delivers three to five centimetres.
I leave the car semi-buried and walk to the train station. Snow crunches beneath my feet. Cars pass at a crawl. Better to avoid the road at all. Trees flex under the additional weight.
Dumping handfuls at a time when it gets too much. Gangs of men in bright orange sweep snow off the steps to the station. Thick white flakes still fall. I flashback to the Routeburn. Kea on the chimney. A snowstorm in mid summer. The Tararuas too, every attempt on the tops held back by snow. One, two, three years or lifetimes ago. The snowmen last less than a day. Bergs of ice melt into green again lawns. An adventure is long overdue. Rachael and I had slowly put together a plan to get away.
Back when I thought I was big-time on Instagram, the travel-photographer-influencers were posting moody shots of the high, cloud wrapped peaks of the island of Madeira. Flights were booked, accomodation arranged, hire-care hired. Then all we had to do was count down the weeks until they became days. Dad asks me if I need to pack my Aeropress. We get dropped off at the airport, check our bags and move through to the departure lounge. I slip in to the liminal space of flight.