We leave tomorrow. I don’t really want to go home; too much left to do and to experience in Boulder. But I know that it’s time to go.  Feeling stressed. Not sure why. Still can’t think straight or function normal tasks. Next month’s rent check must get to John’s room mate Jordan. The window screen that Ally frantically shredded needs to be repaired. The toilet backed up. We need to mail stuff home. We should close John’s bank accounts before we go. It would be easier in person. I’m forgetting everything everywhere. Where are my sunglasses? All our water bottles have gone missing. Where are the keys? They were just in my hand! Added pressure to get emails back to people. I want to finish a recap from Wednesday. I’m getting texts and emails from people asking how I am, worrying why I went silent. I check messages constantly but can’t reply. Too many. Too much to say. But I want people to keep texting, reaching out. It helps me. I want to connect with the people who mean so much to me. I’m having a hard time breathing. All I can do is send an emoji heart in return.

Paul is stressed too. But that task list is looming. We need a moment to connect. Share. Communicate.

Our moment offers us just enough clarity for our practical, logical selves to show up. Two weeks ago we were capable people. Now we are not. We are able to develop a plan. I will wrap up my writing within 15 minutes. We will tackle the remaining tasks on a circular driving swoop around town. Our reward, a strenuous hike. It gets done.

The hike up Sanitas Peak is described as nature’s stair master. 1,300 feet straight up in under a mile.

http://www.thetrailgirl.com/2011/09/26/mount-sanitas/

It is what we needed. Just us. Hiking at elevation. Sucking oxygen in. Can’t get enough in. Have to slow down. Blood rushing. Heartbeat pulsing in my ears. Wiping the sting of salt and sweat from my eyes. Intense focus exclusively directed to the secure placement of my next footstep on the trail. Good to have only that to think about. Lips are chapped. All I can think about is how much I want some chapstick. I’m thinking about chapstick and not about John. It’s a relief to not think about John.

First stop is at the Lion’s head. The view is emerging, vistas expanding. I expect to be sad, overwrought with emotion by being near the lion. I am not. I feel good. Healthy. Strong. Suddenly, maybe, a little bit like a lion.

Each meter of elevation gain offers another familiar landmark. Castle rocks in Sunshine canyon where we hiked yesterday, 29th Street Mall and the job John hated, Boulder Reservoir where John spent so many happy days last summer, Pearl Street and the job John loved, Lost Gulch Overlook where we had his memorial, the Flatirons where we hiked with Kristian on Monday, an eternity ago. The Rockies. Denver. Out an infinite horizon to the middle of the continent.

A late dinner reservation means time to catch up on communication and life’s responsibilities that don’t stop because your son dies. I change a doctor’s appointment. I want to tell the receptionist why I have to change it, but she doesn’t ask and I don’t tell. Paul calls a handyman working at one of our properties. His voice is cheerful. No reason to explain why he can’t be at the apartment to meet him. No reason to bring him down.

There is time to rest, to shower, to get dressed at a leisurely pace, to care about how I look.

Matt and Shelby have gone missing all day. Literally and also emotionally. They are distant and snippy and uninterested in any of our suggested activities. They are late, sleepy, full of excuses. They are hurting. They are dealing with it in the way that they need to. I want them to be part of our grief team but it is an individual sport. They seem to be supporting each other. I hope so. I can’t ask. I can tell they want me to stay out of it right now, so I try to.

We meet them for a late dinner at Pizzeria Locale. Paul took John there four years ago when he was deciding if he should pick CU over Montana. Shelby and John went there on their last night together. They share their stories. It feels invasive and voyeuristic to take Shelby back here. I want to be here. I want to taste the food that he ordered but I didn’t think how hard it would be for her. Should I tell her how much it means to me to have her do this with us? I hope she just knows.