A home for my words.

While I no longer live in Boulder, Colorado, I wanted to share a piece I wrote during that time. An edited version of this was published to “The Last Thing I Loved” series by The Coil, an online literary magazine.

The Last Thing I Loved: The Boulder Flatirons

The sights of my childhood were brick buildings, tiled lobbies, and crown molding. The smells, morning hot chocolate, oily pepperoni pizza slices, and beefs patties between coco bread. I heard steel train wheels gnaw up sparks, Caribbean shoppers negotiate for the freshest fish and fruit, and first-generation US citizens mastering the thickest of Brooklyn accents (I still have mine).

Those experiences were reminiscent of my family’s home country, Jamaica, and a phantom scent of the fresh cut grass American Dreams are made of. They were the only things I knew that didn’t come out of a bulky 90’s television. Yet, it was the television that showed me the world. There were adventures I knew I would explore, even though I had no means and no idea of how one did so. A decade and a half later, I made my dreams come true and traveled the world for a few years. At some point, the yearning for a home to nest in grew within me. 

While I was beyond grateful and prideful of my birthplace, I grew to feel that contemporary Brooklyn was no longer my home. My childhood apartment was made into a condo and what I wanted in a lifestyle was different now. The past had passed.

Fortunately, Boulder, Colorado was a special place that stayed in my mind despite my first visit being just a few short hours. It is there that I found the last thing I loved: the Boulder Flatirons.

I quite literally feel there is a healing property to living near these slabs of rock. I see them and I am instantly energized. I seek out spots all over town just to gaze at them and I send the photos of it scattered throughout my cellphone’s gallery to friends and family around the globe. 

The Flatirons never have a bad day. Whether they are dusted in snow, enrobed by fog, or starched by the Colorado sun, they are stunning. It’s also nice to know that whenever you see them, you are looking west. Something about that is reassuring. If I look in the opposite direction of my new love, I am simply facing my old home.

Sometimes I travel to the Flatirons by foot just so that I can physically work my way towards being in its presence. Often there is an engagement or graduation photo shoot taking place when I arrive. I listen to the people who have driven in from neighboring towns sort out which hike they intend to complete. I see the runners who can practically complete a marathon faster than I can whip up a traditional Sunday meal. Twenty-six miles to the aroma of coconut milk and thyme. 

The Flatirons are also the first place I rock climbed outdoors. The fear in my grip telepathically telling Brooklyn that it would never believe what I was doing at that moment. I whispered my fears to the rocks, which could feel how foreign it all was to me better than the veteran climbers below.

While on the surface level, I love the Flatirons for their omnipresent beauty, I also love them because they affirm my decision to make Boulder, Colorado my new nest. My inner child periodically craves Jamaican patties, but she is happy to be in a peaceful place, nestled in the calm embrace of the Boulder Flatirons.