The Denver Sign-off

To leave Denver was to leave a part of Craig and our lives, but to enter his city without him there waiting for us simply stole my heart. Jill, Diane and I drove into Denver one Wednesday night after having Craig's Oklahoma memorial service a few days before. Though nothing had changed, Denver's skyline looked and felt different knowing he was gone. Each time before--in April then again in July--I'd take the 225 exit towards Aurora, heading straight for the hospital and to Craig no matter what hour I'd roll in. As I drove by the exit, I longed for those University of Colorado days despite the anguish they'd bring knowing Craig had been admitted again. At least he was still alive.

 

That Wednesday, we drove towards his apartment as we did time and again. As we drove to his building, I was struck by memories of how he used to meet us "on the corner" as we parked across the streeet.  I can vividly remember him standing on the corner of his apartment complex ready to receive us. In his winter coat or casual button down, he’d flip his hand in a wave before walking across the intersection in our direction using Denver’s trademark diagonal crosswalk. Always receptive, always a graceful host, he was eager to bring his sisters to his apartment and begin the adventures.

 

Walking into his apartment after his Oklahoma funeral was surreal. We turned the key and opened the door to find the same smell--ever potent, ever vanilla, ever Craig. His apartment was a distinct fragrance and one I’m sure Emily and the sisters would gladly bottle up if we could. It was as if we had walked into his apartment before darting off for snow-shoeing or a dinner on the mall. It was as if he would come from his bedroom to ask if he looked okay or to talk of work. It was as if he was still there, with us, a part of us. To reconcile all the familiar sights, sounds and smells against the deep crevasse of his loss was all but impossible. His belongings remained just as he left them. You could sense his interests from his keepsakes: a refrigerator with a picture of Diane acting ridiculous and the four of us decked out in faux gang clothing acting even more ridiculous. His bookshelves were lined with obscure novels, and items from his obscure travels. Highlighted with the most prominence were photos of his family—you couldn’t separate Craig from his family much like you can’t pull the earth from gravity. It showed. It was with us as we entered his apartment-- his door still peppered with images of familyfor him to gaze upon as he entered his dying days.

 

We stayed in his room after his passing. It somehow brought us closer to him, as did going through his belongings. To make sense of them was much too difficult a process so close to his death; we simply boxed up what we could. To pack up your brother...It’s as an impossible a task as any. It felt wrong to invade his private life, a man of 32, yet there we were trying to make sense of it. I remember gazing upon his hand-writing and falling apart. A man of 32. He was much too young, much too vibrant, much too provocative to have his sisters organize him into tidy little boxes. It just doesn’t make sense.

 

Yet, we packed him up and donated his medical supplies to Project Cure. Before long we were gazing from his empty apartment, staring at the intersections we came to memorize after years of visiting, saying goodbye to the University of Colorado that we had identified and separated from the Denver skyline. His apartment still pleasantly smelled of Craig despite appearing as an empty box. Maybe that was symbolic. His memory resides inside. ~E