Leaving home

I was born in the San Luis Valley of Colorado. Most people don't know where that is, which is fine by most of us who are from there. Part of its charm is its out-of-the-way-ness and its small population. The San Luis Valley is home to Great Sand Dunes National Park. It is bordered by snow-capped mountains on all sides. The Rio Grande River runs through it. It is a high dessert, with an elevation of about 7500 feet. Farmers grow winter wheat, alfalfa, and potatoes. Around this time of year, it's a migratory stop for majestic Sandhill Cranes. If you were to look at a satellite picture of Colorado, you would see a triangular flat spot on the south-central border. That is the San Luis Valley.

My family has called the SLV home for more than one hundred years. Many of our ancestors are buried in the Del Norte cemetery. My grandfather was buried there in 1964. His wife, my sweet, amazing Grandma Sue, was buried next to him three weeks ago.

I lived there for only six short years, but it is still very much home. My dad's oldest brother, my Uncle Bob, and his wife, Aunt Tina, built their house just outside of Alamosa more than 30 years ago. Their house is as much home to my sister and me, and even my mom, as any other place we've ever lived. We lived there for a while when we were little, and we spent nights and days and weeks when we lived elsewhere. They were part of the reason I wanted to go to college in Alamosa (I didn't end up going there). They are my favorite people in the world, for so many reasons.

I look forward to visiting the SLV whenever I can. Unfortunately, the last two visits were because of funerals, but it still is so great to get together with my family. But leaving is so, so difficult. I feel like a part of me stays behind every time we drive that long stretch of Highway 160 between Alamosa and Blanca. It's so lonely and desolate out there, and that sensation of loneliness follows  me up and over La Veta pass, all the way back to wherever I'm going. I haven't lived there in twenty five years, but it will always be home.