Broomfield, CO

Her Broomfield existed on the Eastern side of the Rocky Mountains between Denver and some small mining towns. It used to be a railroad spur back in the days before Colorado was a state, and people would hop off the train in the hopes of making their fortune from a little faith in God and a lot of faith in the coal industry. To her knowledge no one ever did, but they must have fallen in love with Zebulon Pike’s purple mountain majesties and stayed. Everything was golden in her Broomfield. There was little room for green between the fields of straw and broomcorn. Winters especially, were a thing of beauty. The air was crisp and cold and made you feel cleaner just by breathing it. Colorado air was one of those things that made you feel too many things at once, as if you were trying your best to remember something from years ago: like the melody to a favorite childhood song, or the words to a forgotten church hymn. 

Everyone in her Broomfield was always a little bit heartbroken. The Sun shined on most days, but sometimes the sky would droop with heavy clouds and the remnants of unreached dreams. Her Broomfield was a practical town. She would pull a worn flannel jacket around her shoulders under an expanse of stars and swallow salty iron air. She foraged for meaning in the pieces of night that gathered around wooden barns and broken down train-tracks. 

Her Broomfield was real and honest and hollow at the same time.

Reviews

[Chris]

I liked how your vision shared space behind my eyes...

[Davidgeo]

I like your writing style. It feels old timey and nostalgic.