I look out over the large garden that slopes down the hill below Lansdowne. It reminds me of a long-ago May, my first visit to London when I'd gaze out the back of a friend's house in Muswell Hill, south over the dipping garden and beyond to the red brick houses below. However, here, I see the Olympic Mountains rising in the distance on the far side of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. They've pulled up grey and white cloudy eiderdowns to their rocky chins, but the sky above us is clear and very blue.
Drifting through the clearing is younger daughter, hair cascading down her back to her waist. She's picked an apple from one of the surrounding trees and eats it dreamily, occasionally frowning to herself in the midst of her inner dialogue -- the only place where words come easily to her.
It's Eve, Eve in the morning, returned to Eden.
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