Writing Friday

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Standing at the edge, it's easy to imagine what the view looked like 100 years ago. Before the people came. Before the non-indigenous trees took root. Before the freeways sprayed the skyline with exhaust.

Standing at the edge on a clear day, after the storm clouds clean the sky, your eyes travel the Divide from Pikes Peak to Mount Evans. You can see the tree tops kiss a wide blue heaven all the way across the city until they both give deference to the Rocky Mountains.

Standing at the edge, it's easy to remember your time here. Strolling through the gardens on the way to class. Debating with classmates the Meaning of Very Important Things. Waiting for your friends before a bar-b-que. Taking pictures with your mom on graduation day.

Standing at the edge, you can see the dormant garden, with its snaking water feature drained for the winter. Its hallow valleys sit silent, waiting for spring and the happy sound of water dancing its way toward Evans Chapel where you got married.

Standing on the edge of your past and the rest of your life. You can always visit this place, but you can never go back.