When I was a young thing, I used to complain to my momma that it was too flat where we resided, too boring. Out of eye roles, she’d say that I sounded just like my father–the one who courted her on the back of a motorcycle. Oh how they whipped rocky road style ’round the rockies. Their engagement photo features four rows of white teeth juxtaposed with the greens and the blues of Colorado skies dipping into its rivers and back up again towards its hills, its mountains.
She gladly followed him to Colorado after they wed. And there they remained until I was roughly four years and some. Then, we returned to the same place I still see as flat but with arms ever round from welcoming me back in so many times.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen the whites of my blog pages. It’s been two weeks since I’ve writ a word for I’ve been busy running and flying and dreaming and crying. For I’m turning into my father while still trying to be a most awesome mother.
More to come, but I just wanted you to know that I am not dead. Not even close. Too much alive, and definitely far from over.