by Jill Carstens
We were a brand new shiny family in 1968.
We made Denver our home and began to make some history.
I was 3 and a blank canvas, like the wide-open space presented before me, situated at the base of the Rocky Mountains.
The town grew and I grew. It’s bruises and blemishes became mine. We survived.
Denver got a bit cooler and so did I. We weren’t fancy like New York City or San Francisco, but we were something.
And the fact that not everyone lived here was ok with me. We still had space to be, room to grow.
I had adopted Denver’s history and now we had history together.
My identity is forever linked to the geography.
The streets are parts of the map of my mind.
I felt like I knew every nook and cranny of my town.
I could hold it in the palm of my hand.