People in Colorado

Or rather they do, they’re just thin and weathered, as if the wind from the mountains inverted them. And they’re drier than we are on the coast. Proximity to the ocean changes people. The closest of us get brined. We live a rough life in the elements, drink rum, eat fish, know it’s salt that runs in our veins. Those farther away know sky and rock and feel the hum of us all in the dry thin air. We are bleached out and tanned and polished by the wind while the others, they’re freeze-dried, their colors in tact but weightless. It’s the salt you see, the mother we never had, calling to us into the crash of the waves. Stepping into the ocean is coming home. Climb a mountain, you’re ascending to the sky. Curvaceous they may be but mothers they are not. They are cold and powerful and can eat you alive. In the mountains, exposure is real in a way it could never be in marshland. 5 below and snowing still amongst the pines and birches and laurels is cold but pretty. Out here, you can freeze to death on a sunny day. There is something vast in this wilderness that feels like swimming so far out into the ocean you know if you swim any farther you won’t make it back. You see your own death. You see real defeat. You see the world as it is; so much bigger than yourself. You see your own mortality. And you see wizened folk without any lips and you think to yourself, God, I miss New York.