I also wanted to share this one I wrote, which she said was her favorite of mine. I never told her she was part of the inspiration for writing it. I believe she knew. The Wyoming Transplant She met him in college the scion of a blueblood Boston clan and loved him for his dry humor and moist skin What he saw in her was a kind of elemental force a straight forward disingenuous directness and the way her eyes lit up in laughter After graduation they wed and he took her East to a big house on the Squanacook where the water lay placid and green like a late-summer pond in a Rock Springs feedlot and the hills, cool and green in Spring hedged the sky to a steamy patch in Summer After a year or so, even the relentless high plains wind seemed like a happy remembrance She climbed big hills in ridiculous hope of seeing the distant purple and yellow of the faraway Wind River Range Once, a Ford pickup with golden cowboy plates lay just ahead at a Boston traffic signal and as she passed, laughing, called out "take me home!" to the startled driver whose brown rutted skin creased in a grin After the divorce, she stayed on from habit growing pale and weak in the wet winters and soggy summers Until, at age 56, and leaving two grown children behind She sold out, loaded what was left and moved to a double-wide on a dry, rutted arroyo in the wide country East of Rawlins and in that raw and sandy soil that defied her attempts at a rose garden she herself took root at last and flowered, thin and bright as Indian Paintbrush
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