Colorado Blood // Kat I. Mama was born before there was much of anything, in a city with a stretch of road that marked downtown with the untamed still clawing for the humans developed. Mama left when she was seventeen, headed off for the far reaches of the country, escaped the broken down remnants of family and self. Sister never left. Except for one year — disappeared into a frozen wasteland, soon became a thin icicle grown sideways. And only when she returned to Colorado did she begin to melt, thaw, pool into something once more recognizable, blooming again with the columbines that sit patiently. Daddy came later, to the mountains I return to. Young, drawn by landscape of misgivings. His eyes clear in this air, return to the sharp blue of the sky. His memories lay stuffed under the windowseat I don’t like to sit on. Daddy met Mama in the places I now stand, the floor I walk across, the trails that stretch out before me.
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