Thursday, May 09, 2013

a love letter to salty, written far far away


“It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.” ― John Green


the cerulean patchwork of salt pools stitched into the bone-white shoreline of the great salt lake, as seen from the open door of a King Air slipping up to altitude

the sweet hour of rocking, trainbound peace between my doorstep and the Ogden wind tunnel

tucking myself into a wood-paneled corner of the Brighton lodge to write after a long day on skis, snow-softened sunlight pouring across my hands on the keyboard as I wiggle my toes in the fireplace warmth

the moment when my motorbike curls around that uphill corner halfway into Little Cottonwood Canyon, where the stinging, slightly mineral smell of forest pours in to fill my helmet

standing on tiptoes at my window, fingers balanced against old brick, to watch the Wasatch blush with alpenglow

lying on the teddybear softness of the climbing-gym floor, the muscles of my forearms ratcheted tight to the bone, burning and smiling

the sussurus of a needle on my father's records

climbing up to bed on the hangboard, just because

the beautiful barista in my next-door living room, peeking her blue-eyed hellos through a thick fringe of bangs as she draws my third espresso of the day

the green canvas of a summertime Liberty Park, Pollocked with dogs and ducks and hulahoops and slacklines and tattooed flesh and dervish children and balloons and so much dancing

a city chosen mine, keeper of my only root.

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