There’s nothing like the sounds of night. Loony and Scratchy are in Pueblo at a basketball tournament so my ears are attuned to hearing Blue’s late night pacing. He got me up at 2:30 and the house had an unusual smell, kind of acrid and toasty.
I stepped outside and was struck by a thick smoke that had settled into the neighborhood.
I know that smell. It’s the smell of a house on fire.
I expected there to be trucks everywhere but instead I saw a police cruiser’s headlights cutting through the smoke heading west at a leisurely, non-emergency pace. Then I saw an ambulance heading east without emergency sirens.
I heard a woman singing but I couldn’t make out the words, and oh-so-faintly in the distance, sirens.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor and thought I saw a cloud, lit red from underneath in the Mt. Sanitas area. Please don’t let our foothills be on fire. Not in March. I silently closed the door that my guests left open to bring in the cool night air.
Yesterday was unseasonably hot. I biked around with Itchy, stopping at parks and running into people we haven’t seen in ages, the heat brings everyone out. I felt the sun on my skin like a summer day, the trees are releasing their blossoms while Itchy worries that there won’t be any stone fruit should it snow, and it should snow. March is usually the wettest month but we haven’t had moisture.
My Parasitic Twin was basking in the sun with her niece yesterday. (Insert admonitions from me about sun damage and the importance of protecting her young skin) Itchy was to have a sleepover, I dropped him off.
I walked home with the lightness and promise of having the house all to myself for one night, no boys.
“You better get a hooker!” yelled MPT as I walked out the door.
I closed and locked the doors, drew the shades and sent the universal signal for nobody home while I holed up with a glass of wine and music.
My bliss only lasted a couple hours when Itchy let himself in, something about being bored and wanting to come home. Cue the call from Scratchy, saddened by two losses at the tournament, commence with emotional crisis management.
Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. I keep Googling Boulder Fire March 19. Nothing yet.