Isabella L. Field

Family Mosaic

Cannon Roxanne Crawford–Wilson

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Silverton

Isabella L. Field

The car hums quietly, carrying you through the rising mountain roads. Elton John plays quietly as you gaze out the window, watching the mountains climb higher and higher with each mile. You crack your window and breathe in the familiar smell of the air; you’re coming home. Your father’s hand rests strong on the wheel, steering the car into the heart of Colorado until you are riding the side of a mountain. All around you the Rockies stand like great guardians to this country, watching the tiny car’s procession into the heart of the mountains. They tower above you, dark evergreens rolling up the base of sharp white peaks that cut the cold blue sky. Their power and beauty overwhelm you, press down on you, commanding respect, radiating glory. You worship them, your soul submits to their power and cries out in awe at the everlasting strength of the mountains. The car winds down the spine of the mountain and rolls into town down Main Street, the only paved road in town. On either side of you, old wooden buildings line up shoulder to shoulder, the memories of each one swirling in your mind. Smedley’s, the ice cream parlor you used to stop at after hiking the Highland Mary trail nearby; The Orange Crate, a gift shop you used to spend hours in staring at the beautiful painted horses; Handlebars, an old mountain restaurant decorated head to toe with road signs, badges, and flashing lights. All these places strike their own unique chord in your heart, blending together to create a beautiful melody of times past.

Such is the nature of Silverton; this is a place where the songs of the past echo softly off the stony walls of the mountains, flowing into your ear reminding you of the things in life that are

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real, that matter. You breathe this song in through the thin air; you feel the melody in the chilly wind off the mountains; it brushes the dust and the grime from your heart and sweeps back the blinders from your eyes. You are alive. Oh, finally, you are alive! But now it’s time to go inside; night is falling, the light glows orange across the face of Kendall Mountain. One by one the stars twinkle to life, dusting the dark blue sky in a thousand pinpricks of diamond light. The owl flutters soundlessly, the coyote rustles through the trees, the mountain wind grows cold and brushes your skin, beckoning you to retire to the safety and warmth of the house. You step into the Assay house, the place you have called home for generations. As you open the small wooden door, a tiny bell tinkles softly. A blue heeler trots up to you, tail wagging in excitement as it brushes its soft head against your hand. The house itself is tiny, with only one floor crowded with antiques and quilting supplies. From the tiny kitchen just a few steps away, grandma makes her way toward you, bearing a smile of pure joy adorned by a head of wild silvery hair. She welcomes you into her warm embrace, holding you tight to her chest. The smell of her perfume contains a thousand treasured memories that waft gently around you, bringing a smile across your face and brimming your eyes with tears. She smiles at you once more, shining like summer rain on the mountainside. “Let’s play poker!” she laughs as she beckons you to the dining table.

You squeeze yourself around the table with the rest of your family, the room filling with laughter as the game begins. While the joy of family swirls in the air, your eyes wander across the hundreds of photos that cover the walls of the house. These pictures recount the past 20 years of life in Silverton, with images such as your father, looking so young as he casts his fly line out over the glassy waters of Molas lake, and your sister when she was a baby, her round face adorned with sunglasses, squatting in her stroller with hilarious swagger. You smile as your heart swells with tremendous love

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