Atticus   

My grandmother won’t like this post. Fortunately for me, she probably won’t see it because she doesn’t own a computer.

But it also won’t make my mom happy, meaning there’s a chance she’ll print it out and read it to my grandmother to gain an ally.

Here’s my confession: I’ve grown to like it here. And by “here,” I mean Denver.

Yes, I hate the six-month winter. I hate shoveling snow, and I hate walking through it to the bus stop. I hate the lack of sweet tea. I hate driving on roads where people don’t understand there’s a lane for slow drivers and a lane for faster drivers. I hate the airport. I hate the indifference toward college football. I hate the lack of trees. I hate how dry and flakey my skin is 365 days a year.

But I love the summer. I love spending time with my cousin Diane, with whom I didn’t grow up. I love fly fishing. I love my flag football team. I love the lack of mosquitoes, roaches and Japanese beetles. I love the big mountains. I love learning how to play hockey. I love being only a mile from a grocery store and my gym. I love the lack of pollen. I love how sunscreen actually dries on my skin.

And, most importantly, I love hanging with Dave, Todd, Jim, Kelly, Christopher, Greg and Andy. I’ve made more friends in a year in Denver than I did in nine years in Atlanta.

I don’t know whether that says something about me or about the city I previously called home. Probably a little of both.

Will the move I said would be nothing more than a two-year change of pace become permanent? I don’t know. My best friend recently reminded me to live in the moment—to not fret over the past or worry about the future.

So I’m just taking things as they come, watching things unfold.

Just don’t tell my grandmother.