Before the bridge closed
In eighth grade, I went on a two week trip to Japan. Our guides advised the parents that its best not to call Timmy and ask how he’s doing.
Beyond the tech hoops that had to be jumped through in 2010 for international communication, there was another, more prominent reason.
Homesickness.
Kids can be having the time of their lives with Geisha tea service and the bright Tokyo lights, but one call from Mom and it all turns sour and sad.
It’s great, but it’s not home.
When I moved to Colorado, I first insisted that no one visit me for a month. I wanted Colorado to be my place. I didn’t want streets and spots to remind me of others before it could remind me of myself. I wanted to feel at home before I invited others into my house (and by that I mean “rented basement”).
Otherwise all of this just feels like a vacation. Which is great, but it isn’t home.
My first visitor was my boyfriend. He arrived just a few days after my month anniversary here. We went to the hot springs, to First Friday in Carbondale, climbed to Hanging Lake, bought tacky souvenirs.
A couple weeks later, my college roommate and best friend visited. Again we went to Hanging Lake, to Carbondale for Mountain Fair and giggled like children well past my new 40-hour-work-week bedtime.
I put her on a bus this morning to the Denver airport. She has another month of funemployment and then starts her next chapter in Washington D.C.
I go back to the bus station on Thursday to pick up my mom. A few days after she leaves, the Grand Avenue bridge closes in preparation for its new and improved resurrection — slated to open after 95 days.
I planned all my visitors accordingly. One of my big assignments at work is covering the bridge and how it’ll affect locals and visitors alike in navigating Glenwood Springs.
I wanted people to wait to visit so I could settle in, but I soon learned it couldn’t too long.
When I first got here, I loved the mountains because I simply had never seen anything like them before. I imagined them cradling me, keeping me safe.
As excitement dimmed and homesickness stepped in, I began to see the mountains in a new light. I saw them as isolating, restricting — keeping me far from family, friends and news of new rap beef.
I would force myself to stare at them on my walks to and from work, force myself to see the beauty instead of the betrayal. “You have to remember what it was like when you first saw this.”
I am homesick. I do miss my boyfriend and best friend. I’m not even thinking yet about my mom‘s eventual departure. I have good friends here, a good job and a good routine.
My loved ones may be on the other side of the mountains now, and it does seem like they might not ever be able to come back.
But they did. And they will again.
Until then, I’ll continue to make this place my home.
