“Grandad,” they’ll say, “What’s skiing?”
And Grandad will look at his grandchildren, with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, and be unable to speak of it for the pain of its extinction will be simply too much for his wounded heart to take.
“Oh sweet, sweet, child of summer,” he’ll say, “Tis but a memory now.”
The year is 2097, and skiing/snowboarding has gone the way of the dinosaurs. It’s done. Dusted. Finished. Finito. Skiing and snowboarding has passed into myth, into legend. Fading from view like an untethered boat on a strong ocean current, only the old now remember it.