A Warm Day in January

The park is quiet yet active at 1pm on a Thursday. Who is here but the unemployed, the retired and the stay at home parents with small children in strollers, on the jungle gym or waddling around like small penguins carrying juice boxes? Two college-aged boys tire of their game of hackey sack and stroll away, laughing in long shorts and brightly colored t-shirts. A woman stretches after a run; a man does push-ups, an ipod strapped to one of his spread out arms; two people play frisbee on the other end of the park, a small dog running between them, hoping one will drop it so he can come to the rescue. The breeze picks up as a patch of clouds pass between me and the sun, chilling my bare arms, and I move to the next bench down, unobstructed by the winding, leafless trees - the only reminder that it is, in fact, January.

I'm taking the day off of job hunting, spending it instead on writing, a long walk and coffee with a friend. The high today is 61 degrees and, as usual, it's sunny and gorgeous. The purple sweater I'd worn has been relegated to my backpack and the cuffs of my jeans are rolled up, showing off my white calves and the black and hot pink running shoes I got from my sister; they don't match my grey tank top with the lace down the front, but they're comfortable on my feet when I roam the streets and sidewalks of Denver.

As March comes closer, I've started to become nostalgic. I think of the friends I'll miss, the groups I'll need to recreate, the restaurants I realize I've already visited for the last time. Will I go back to the mountains before we leave? I don't know. Will I ever make it to Grand Lake or the Hanging Lakes? Probably not. Will I bother to come back for my five year college reunion in October? I'm not sure. I'm beginning to see that there are many more things I'll miss than I'd thought: happy hour on the outdoor stairway of my apartment building, carrying my blue folding chair with the built-in backpack full of crackers, dips, cherries, a book and a water bottle of white wine to Cheesman Park, where I read and unwound until the sun went down and mosquitoes bit my feet. They have parks in Minnesota, but it's not the same. I did a lot of healing here. When I moved to Colorado on July seventh, 2009, I was an empty shell, conditioned to be unamused and perpetually skeptical. I came knowing one thing: I needed emotional healing. I needed to reconnect with the happiness, strength and confidence I'd lost. Colorado has been witness to my transformation and because of that, it will always be in my heart.

But now, the universe has a new plan for me.