Colorado is my youth. It is parched skin and hair electric with static. It is running wild and barefoot, riotous with laughter. It is the white light of snow fall and lightning. It is the bounce of hail and the soul-clattering of thunder. It its picnics along crystal clear rivers. It is spicy green chile and a full cookie jar. It is flaxen foothills and slithering snakes. It is music and made with love birthday cakes. It is hiking on Ptarmigan. It is starlit drives and the Sex Lights. It is the exhilarating scream of the Wildcat and the Twister. It is mountains dotted with columbine and indian paintbrush. It is swimming lessons, summer skin, and air heady with the scent of chlorine. It is the sweet boy who committed suicide in seventh grade. It is brick houses and mountain towns. It is thin air. It is blue sky and slowly spooling sunsets. It is my first crush, my first love, and the hubster, again and again, everywhere. It is the past, effervescent and alive in me, always.
Happy Birthday, Maren!