After cutting a small lock of hair off the back of my head, it was placed inside a Ziploc baggie, tucked into a conventional, white envelope, and shipped to Loveland, Colorado. A town akin to Breckenridge; a place reminiscent of fond Rocky Mountain ski trips. Memories came flooding back. Here, I mastered adaptive snow skiing with new friends, while also
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Scraped knees, scabbed elbows, and bruised toes were hazards of walking as a child. Falling was normal. As birthdays passed, walking became more difficult. Occasionally, my dad would hold my hand when walking. Not only a sign of affection, but a source of balance and stability. His large hand would instinctively clinch my tiny one upon the buckling of my
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