Boulder

She picked me up with a swell, hard in embrace, her face a good feeling. Catching stories as the road fell into Denver, to their home, new to me, to a brother, the same. As we pulled up, the door open, a yellow glow across the grass - a golden lab danced in greeting. I love to tour homes. Touch corners. Imagine backyards. Finger the leaves of a garden burned by the sun. Hear what has been done, what changed. To feel if a house is a house, or a home. We shared rice and curried vegetables; he drove me to Boulder.

In the dark dark a woman suffered vertigo, and we circled her with our bodies, opened the whole foods box with fruit tart (remember), sliced triangles on her pottered plates. Spoke of all the crusts she tried to make, to mimic, from scratch. I crawled into that big, perfectly made bed, facing the fields I'd run through, and falling, to the hoohoo of an owl.

With double vision disorientation, still she sought to get the coffee going. Same pot. Same process. Filtered water. Upset with herself for not buying enough cream. Her cups make coffee taste better. I ran the familiar route, from when we used to live in the love shack, into town along the creek path.
I must have taken myself places. To shops, to streets. Re-familiarizing. Valmont. In her borrowed suburban. Excited to be in the same space as Mads J & Conor, Farles, the brothers E, for a bbq: homemade flourless chocolate cake dusted in powdered sugar, caprese, grilled corn, hot dogs, buns, ice cream & fruit. Red wine, Colorado beers. We laid in a sleepy pile in front of the tv, dedicated to the Olympic opening ceremony, country after country. To sleep under the same roof, like a modern family. In the morning Mads J was my hype girl on bike as I ran the creek path, on the hunt for those good prairie dogs. A walk to Moe's for bagels and coffee.

To Longmont, to the new home of the Mitchells, to meet Maeve, to see how Jude had grown since I held her in my arms on the basketball court years ago. This was the most painful. The reason I haven't written. The hugs felt life-charging. Like not knowing something was missing to the point that a touch filled a hole that was hiding. Olympic soccer match, a remembered lazy susan with cheese & crackers, Mae skeptical, watchful, the dogs aflurry. The long, blonde, curling locks of Judebug, a little person, a lot of attitude. We were, simply, present. Up and down the deck, garden perusing, catching crickets, how fragile, chickens clucking, Upslope beer, garden burgers, greens, interpretive dancing. Babes in bubble baths, her little bum above the bubbles, getting them ready for bed. The goodbye is slow, the hug deep, the last of eyes, almost averted, like tricking yourself into thinking you don't know what "last" is. I take that deep step into the suburban, call Red to keep me linear, afraid to hurt that much again.

Back at gray barn farm, she and I shift the water and gossip about Gregory Alan. My favorite time shared with her is driving her places, to Niwot, the bank, to small shops for the right meats, the right cinnamon rolls, picking up the weed eater - errands of love. We spend time on the property, watching the golden lab leap endlessly into the pond. Kept running, through cowfields & cattle bridges, beneath a sky littered in hot air balloons.

The next day, I met with the old ballz for a run in the mountains - Caribou Ranch, some 8,000 ft. I miss that loping drive up the canyon; had my head out the window to see the texture of the red rocks, the climbers in the creases. Like I hadn't left, all of us lumbering up the mountain, along wildflower fields, to stop at a cold, shallow creek. Sandrock dipped in the water, dunking his head, doing pushups to show his strength was compatible to you(th). One of my to-do's - make it to Alfalfa's for a post run almond croissant and coffee. It's possible it was an act of manifest destiny, because Old Ballz bee-lined it for Alfalfa's, for the Marty Special, smoothies, plates of eggs. The feeling of post run, round the circle eating, sharing of experience, and reminiscing about how Running with the Legends is my favorite book, how it made Sandrock smile, telling him, "Didn't you know we used to read these stories out loud to each other as we drove across the states, cover to cover?" How Schmitty buys every Running with the Legends book he can find online, in consignment bookstores, because they're out of print. How he has a collection of personally signed and addressed copies; how they wait till they find someone with the right name, and regift the book. Meant more than the croissant.

I drove the burb through the Boulder Iron Man bike leg, just after that poor woman was struck & killed, to a place that used to be home in N. Boulder. Welcomed by this crop of blonde, tanned, big-eyed woman, running, hugging, her husband behind her, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, smiling. They had out bowls of sliced fruit, the espresso maker on the ready. We shared breakfast together out in their garden, rich, bulbously fertile in zucchini as the sun baked.

Mads J & I had date night at Pizzeria Locale for Polpo Caldo with kale, octopus, white beans, red onions, garlic and chili. Rosé. Mais pizza with mozzarella, sweet corn, prosciutto cotto, crème fraîche, garlic & chive. Watching the people on Pearl between sips of incredible pink & collecting the powdered char of the crust on our lips. Post devour we walked to the finish line of the Boulder Iron Man, witness to a blind man's finish, soaking in the excitement, the power of she and he as they finished, before grabbing cold froyos topped in sweet somethings.

The last day, over big salads with Cure farm produce & peaches & some of that specifically right sliced meat, Lindz & I shared time. She has these beautiful crisp bluey eyes, the most huggable shoulders, always deep in thought, a person so present it's hard to find.We savored, said our goodbyes. Mads J picked me up and we headed to Denver for thrifting, frozen treats, errands and that sweet, sad drop to the curb of DIA.