I’m Still Here, Just Not Home

No map leads back to what it was

Photo by You Ng Roo

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They used to say this was the safest neighborhood in all of Colorado.

I believe it, and it saddens me.

Growing up I’ve learned one of the most important things about living somewhere is that things always change.

And it’s an eerie feeling to see my childhood home, the one where Mom would run after me outside to yell out the screen door “Get your butt home when those outside lights turn on!” and watch me run off to God knows where at 10 years old, is now another heart of Denver. An extension.

But I don’t mind people.

I like them.

I like seeing what book titles people have sitting in the Beer Garden studying nearby. I like going out at night when I feel cramped up and passing by those on the phone with their dogs’ glowing leash, the way it looks like it’s floating in the dark until I realize there’s an animal attached to it.

I enjoy sharing the chaos of the 4th with strangers sharing fireworks. I enjoy the liveliness that I can immerse myself into when I’m feeling lonely.

But I still have the uneasy feeling watching these apartment buildings popping up, their skeletons growing in the way of the view of Lookout Mountain. The mugginess in the air getting worse as the years grow. The trash being left around my home.

I hear loud bangs when the window’s open, and I have to guess whether that was the dump truck slamming a dumpster lid or someone firing a gun again.

I have to inspect the stranger walking past me on the street, deciding whether or not their hood is sketchy or from the cool breeze of the creek. And I’ve learned that staring at crazy people will only put their attention on me. I have to pretend that that’s normal and ignore it. Because… it IS normal. Now…

I have to laugh at the person throwing their arms up in the air in the parking lots and screaming about how real their existence is to nobody in particular, even though deep down I know that’s a mother’s child.

I have to ask for a bathroom code and wait 5–10 minutes, even though I’ve been walking into these places for years.

I have to accept that this is no longer a paranoia feeling seeing these differences and realize I’m no longer censored to the abundance of people, of street drugs passed around. No longer finding it odd to see a naxalone vending machine and appreciating it rather. No longer scared to drive in traffic and willing to drive in anger to get away from it.

No longer living in Colorado. Just Denver.

Arvada is now the city. My home is now a memory.