Small Square Bites

Wolf Creek ski run opened today, earliest reported snowfall in the mountains in October. I vacation with five women and outside our rooms the steam off the Mother Pool spills a thick silvery liquid like mercury. Nimbostratus hover like crumpled painter’s drop cloth stained periwinkle and peach above the cold river periphery and quieted lights on the Mexican restaurant across the street where the bartender hasn’t yet begun pouring tequila or beer.

Deanna says there’s a Patsy Cline tribute in town tonight to benefit an art museum named after a local watercolorist and it’s all happening on Fritz and Mabel Place. I chuckle at the street name, deciding whether to take a fourth trip down to the hot springs or simply nap.

Then my daughter telephones sobbing of the inevitable break-up from her first love, and my husband claims on another line that he can navigate this as I am too far away to be able to do anything, really. Still I assure her this experience will eventually unfurl kindly and without blemish.

While in the temporary living room, I silently nod to my girlfriends who tiptoe in and out  - yes, bring me a whiskey neat, please, and I’m selfishly wondering about the directions to the country western concert as my heartbroken little one whimpers, voice cracking like a broken wire I’ve just stepped over and the metal trails, snagged.

I slowly recline in this getaway corner on the border of sulfur smells and lithium float, between indecision and reality's home, here where we will rest until tomorrow. The only recipe to free any of us from disappointments, the 100 degree tubs named Overlook, Paradise, Clouds in my Coffee, and Lobster Pot. As my drink arrives, I nod gratitude to my friend and continue to listen patiently to my daughter, as I take the crystalized ginger offered in small square bites.



in reminiscence of another October- for Delaney and the Yeehahs