It was the summer of 2010 when my eyes opened, slowly focusing on black storm clouds rolling in, threatening much-needed rain. As the shadows fell over Goldie and Kurt’s ranch land and the elk and packs of coyotes that often grazed and played in our backyard, I slid deeper under our down comforter and rolled on top of my very own electric furnace, burying my nose in his neck and inhaling the still-intoxicating scent that first drew me to him back in 1995. When he sleepily got up and stepped barefoot onto our radiant-heated, wide-planked recycled wood floors, I asked Baddy to switch on the gas fireplace in our room, and I drifted back to sleep feeling happy, safe and very, very lucky.
I didn’t know our stay in our contemporary farmhouse would be short-lived. I thought we would be there forever. As somebody who likes to look forward, I had NO premonition that we would end up where we are today, in a teardown, lodge-like rental on Red Mountain with the richest view in town, and where we were last night, popping champagne corks off our balcony, celebrating life, love, family and friendship.
So here we are in a new phase of our lives, four moves later, in a house with single-paned views of Aspen Mountain that lets all the freezing air in and the smoke from our real working fireplace out. And I still feel very, very lucky. But forever? What a foreign expression. Does anything last forever?
