Born on the Red Carpet

I lied. I always said Colorado is home. When I am away, I am only a visitor, in the city, in the state, in the place I temporarily occupy. I lied. I traveled home a couple of days ago. I stayed in the house that held all my childhood memories. They were like little treasures I found as I walked through the remodeled house. We built forts. My cousins and I built forts using the old wooden piano as cover. The piano moved along with everything else. But, the house, it still smelled the same. I love that smell. I adore that smell. I decided to jog around the neighborhood of Pacific Palisades and quickly remembered what their sidewalks looked like. Broken. Divided. Different sheets of concrete raised up due to quakes, sometimes in the middle of the night. I never could get used to the earthquakes as a little girl. But I have a feeling I would be more terrified now. Adulthood does that to you. Each house unique, built with character. "Miniature castles" my uncle would say. I raised my head to the branches sprawled against the gray sky. A humid sun forcing its way on to my face. The leaves were reds, oranges,and greens. Color never died in California. Unlike Colorado. For the first time, in a long time, I thought to myself, I belong. I belong here, in this moment, in this place. And it was as if I never left. I was supposed to be famous. I was supposed to be a star. I was born to be on the red carpet. But they don't have any in this rocky mountain state. My acting coach would say, "if they don't have one, make one up." But I was supposed to be famous, don't you see?