Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Colorado has been a thread in the fabric of my life forever. I first came here when I was less than a teen, attending a summer camp in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. I spent six weeks learning to ride a horse and make a lanyard and swim in cold mountain waters. I learned campfire songs that still cling to me and, at the same time, met new friends who are long just memories.

After I aged out of the camp experience, I continued to visit Colorado because my aunt and uncle and their children were there. I passed halcyon days in their home, peeking out the third story window at the passing scene and imagining that I would one day capture the essence of life in their family. I never did; not because I didn’t try, but because it was impossible.

I needed to be a realist.

So this year, while men wage war overseas and politicians scramble for their place at the table, I returned to Colorado and my aunt and uncle and cousins and grand cousins. It is Thanksgiving. And it is wonderful.

The young girl of yesteryear – the one who rode horseback and sang camp songs — is a memory herself. But the feeling of family, that sense that one is connected with others regardless of what one thinks of them is overriding. Which is why I want to acknowledge it in writing before the moment passes.