Denver

I’m on the 38th floor, looking out for the first time at mountain teeth scraping where fog blends with sky. There are people with doctoral degrees behind me, drinking Merlot or Moscato. A colorful chandelier of blown glass lights their irises, their polished shoes. Four months and thousands of miles away, all I can think is that this is what you must’ve seen before you jumped.

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Filed under Creative Nonfiction, lyric essay, Memory, Short Non-Fiction

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