I am a native in this world And think in it as a native thinks

Monday, July 2, 2018


I missed the worst of the current heat wave by flying right through it; by the time it got to New York, I was gone and Denver has cooled down significantly from the 106 degrees it hit last week.

It was still pretty damn hot though, so as planned I spent most of the afternoon inside museums -- a wonderful landscape photography exhibit at the Denver Art Museum, and the Kirkland Museum of Fine and Decorative Art, which is a little gem crammed with exquisite furnishings from all the 20th Century masters.

When I was wandering through the Capitol Hill neighborhood on my way to the museums I passed this -- Molly Brown's house, which is also now a museum.

Many years ago a man I was deeply, painfully, in love with sent me a postcard of this house. We'd never talked about feelings, never shared more than a couple of hasty kisses, but he signed the postcard Love it. Love you. 

It ended badly, of course, and he died tragically young, but when I saw the house yesterday, I saw that postcard, saw the loopy slant of his handwriting, and it brought tears to my eyes. I hope that wherever he is, he heard me whisper hello to him in front of the Molly Brown house, and knew that I was thinking about him.

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