With the new year upon us, we thought it would be fun to kick off a new series, Good Day Chocolate Lovers Letters, as a meaningful way to share a sense of connection amongst our followers and hopefully spread a little joy in the process too.
Our theme, New Day, became even more so aptly timed as our Colorado community suffered devastating losses in the Marshall Fire, just last week.
We love this piece written by a local GDC fan in that it reminds us that even the darkest moments will hold light.
Write and Inspire - April Fools
If you’d like to write to us about this theme, or April’s theme “April Fools,” we’ll be publishing a few that we think should be out in the world!
A heartfelt thank you to all the helpers; from the firefighters to the utility workers, cooks and coordinators; our community is strong and is boundless in its generosity.
I wake the new day anxiously, one sock slipped half off and the other lost in a tangle of the grey top sheet wound about my legs. My room is a mess and despite the bright glare of sunlight streaming through the window offering the gift of newness, I am awash in the darkness of smoke and fire. The Marshall Fire.
It was a weird day to begin with, the whipping wind knocking my car around as I drove my 16 year old son to Superior. After two years of agonizing teenage angst coupled with a global pandemic, the promise of a new friend loomed large for both my son and for my own perpetually concerned mother heart:
Are they going out? Is this his new girlfriend? Wow, love her eyeliner!
Who knew that I’d be back in just over an hour to escape the ever-towering smoke plume growing closer to Superior’s maze of suburban houses and condominium complexes? In a matter of that hour, my son’s house - where he lived half the time with his dad - would be gone, along with oh so many memories of our child’s 16 years.
While not a particularly reflective guy, my son’s dad does tend towards tradition. His girlfriend, a wonderful chef, loves to fill the table with rich Italian food and bottles of wine. Their Christmas tree, just recently shading a mass of shiny presents bowed up and ready to tear into, reached at least 12 feet in the high-ceilinged living room. The stairs from the landing to the second floor, where my son’s bedroom once was, displayed the requisite “child over time” photographs: Soccer at 5, 6, 7. Basketball at 10, 11, 12. I think there was even a family photo up from before we’d split.
Now there is a charred slab of concrete next to a soggy hole dusted over with snow and ice.
I wake the new day anxiously, thinking about my son, his dad, their missing dogs, their missing life. Thinking about loss, the definitive end of a time and place, the insecurity of a life upended. I wake the new day anxiously, thinking about trauma and impact, the return to school with no books or backpack, the melted desktop computer that took two years of savings to procure. I wake the new day anxiously, thinking about finances and support resources, therapy and rental homes, the awkward conversations to come where the fierce momma lion that lives inside of me will need to be tempered by compassionate patience and monastic Zen acceptance.
My son, 16, just kissed his first girlfriend and lost his home on the very same day. I wake anxiously.
Song for a new day: Get Together, Youngbloods (1967)