Denver

It’s seventy degrees in Denver.

A hive of queer activists buzzes about the hotel lobby.

I see some familiar faces and bump into friends.

Between the superficial hugs and kisses, there are warm and tender ones to be found.

To my surprise I stand on stage in protest.

I swim laps in the outdoor pool and breath in the mile high air every other stroke.

It’s February.

I scream with delight on a rickshaw ride I took into the night and eat half priced sushi.

Sitting on a hotel bed I stare at his pretty sky blue nails and hold back the tears.

I eat chicken enchiladas and ride the elevators.

There’s a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from my hotel room door.

I call a friend in Virginia.

It’s three in the morning and she’s sad.

I feel empowered my femme identity.

I’m excluded by a radical feminist and caught off guard.

I’m angry.

I feel hot in my new black dress.

I take selfies in my hotel room window and post them on Instagram.

It’s what we do.

The bartender looks like Elizabeth Berkley.

I have another at last call.

I feel dehydrated and have a headache.

My wig is packed in a zip lock bag.

I wait for the shuttle and talk to a stranger.

I complement him on his sharp navy blue wool tweed coat

His dad bought it for him when he started transitioning

My heart stops as our plane attempts to land during a snowstorm

A stoic young man holding flowers waits for someone to return

I am grateful for the ride home

The Thing with Feathers

After an exhausting, yet exhilarating two weeks of traveling and attending conferences, I was headed home.  My Southwest 737-700 series Boeing airplane landed in Portland Maine just before midnight, but not before circling out over the dark and deep North Atlantic on a cold, but not frigid winter’s night. Now that I’m working in Portland, the 32 mile drive has become routine, and I tend to drive quickly down the turnpike, often sharing the highway with a handful late night drivers and the occasional truck hauling wood products to a their awaiting warm southern destination.  Flipping between John Tesh’s radio show, Intelligence for Your Life, and First Wave satellite radio, I realize I was tired, and raced home.

Exit 32 arrives and I step on the gas of my white 4-cylinder Elantra, trying to catch the fleeting green light and pass through the intersection to the route 1 connector and the back roads to my house. I don’t see another car the rest of my drive.  With a half mile to go, I turn right onto my tree lined road, and pass the darken

Into the Darkness      Maine

homes that are scattered acres apart, separated by woods and small fields.  No picket fences here. After leaving the highway, I drive a little more causally, aware that critters, like deer and the occasion moose, may suddenly appear in the road in front of me.  Before reaching the driveway, my salt covered headlights catch the slinky crawl of a small animal crossing the road.   It’s safely in the other lane and just about to disappear into the forest, but I notice a brilliant flash of white. I smiled to myself, knowing that the skunk and I avoided a life altering collision.