Of course I had been traveling for ages--a four hour drive to the airport in Atlanta, two hours there before boarding the plane, a three hour plane ride, and hour from Denver's airport to Longmont. I was dehydrated and exhausted. I fell asleep quickly and we woke to socked-in rain, Brevard-style, the sky low and dripping. That afternoon we were reunited with the girls and drove down to Denver to have dinner with my family. We had time to kill so we did a tour of the old neighborhood in Denver, the place we'd lived before Longmont, when Indy was 9 months to 3-years-old and Ayla was 2 to 5. This foray into the past was less emotional, and it seemed only natural when we drove up to our old house and found it empty, just the way we'd left it. Since it happened to be between renters, the girls were able to peer in all the windows and see their old rooms. I even let them go into the backyard to revisit all the spiky weeds--we remember this particular house by those weeds, referring to it now as the "Spiky weed house". Despite the spiky weeds it was a pleasant backyard, big and green with vines hanging down for the girls to play amongst when they were small enough to crawl into the tunnels the greenery made. After the house we went to the park that was down the block, and I told the girls how toddler Indy used to pull the larger Ayla up the hill in her red wagon, a stout little confection full of energy and confidence, her shoulders hunched and powerful, like a bulldog. The weather was threatening. The next day the sun would come out. But before all that we paused in front of the house of spiky weeds and recreated one of my favorite pictures of the three of us, ever.
I really sort of despise nostalgia, so of course it only makes sense that I have indulged in it here. Lately my writing seems to be indulging in everything I've ever despised. Anyway, there we were. Here we are. Life is strange and mysterious.