Driving to my sister Cara's house - January 2014
"Every day is a gift from god. Why not thank him?"
- church sign from near my sister's house
"Boulder is an outdoor city," my brother says.
We take another sharp turn, passing cyclists squinting into the sun.
My sister lived here. She passed the skinny, sleek windmills with their pointy blades,
Saw the tan walls of dirt spring up around her and fall back down to reveal the mountains.
We pass fields with ice patches hiding desperately in puddles of shadow,
The last signs of a long storm. They are fighting a losing battle.
My brother and I talk about the normal things. Nietzsche, drugs, yoga.
In a way this is silence - a momentary cease-fire. We don't mention Cara for a while.
The sun is so bright here we can hardly see. We turn into it one more time and arrive.
My sister's house is on a farm, with horses ignoring us next door.
Inside, my family is hard at work picking through this new space, cautiously moving
Through a landscape for which there is no guide. To her, this space was open,
Wide as the space between it and the mountains. She spun in the air on her silks, clung to the ceiling on her dancing pole. We stagger and collide, clumsy without her.
Soon, not a blade of grass will exist that she stepped on. Soon,
All the life in the world will have been born, given birth, and died again.
We smoke and drink late into the evening.
Soon, this night will end.
- church sign from near my sister's house
"Boulder is an outdoor city," my brother says.
We take another sharp turn, passing cyclists squinting into the sun.
My sister lived here. She passed the skinny, sleek windmills with their pointy blades,
Saw the tan walls of dirt spring up around her and fall back down to reveal the mountains.
We pass fields with ice patches hiding desperately in puddles of shadow,
The last signs of a long storm. They are fighting a losing battle.
My brother and I talk about the normal things. Nietzsche, drugs, yoga.
In a way this is silence - a momentary cease-fire. We don't mention Cara for a while.
The sun is so bright here we can hardly see. We turn into it one more time and arrive.
My sister's house is on a farm, with horses ignoring us next door.
Inside, my family is hard at work picking through this new space, cautiously moving
Through a landscape for which there is no guide. To her, this space was open,
Wide as the space between it and the mountains. She spun in the air on her silks, clung to the ceiling on her dancing pole. We stagger and collide, clumsy without her.
Soon, not a blade of grass will exist that she stepped on. Soon,
All the life in the world will have been born, given birth, and died again.
We smoke and drink late into the evening.
Soon, this night will end.