It was the wide-open windows of summer drives that I started to miss. The evening sun hiding behind a hillside, waiting to reveal exploding reds and oranges when the car finally finishes the bend. Warm skin. Lighter eyes. Aching legs. It blends together, you know, all of those good moments.
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He asked me once where I’d like to live and I said I didn’t know, anywhere really, so long as it was an old stone cottage, with a room for reading, a studio for making, on an ocean cliff, beside a lighthouse, overlooking fjords, Mediterranean breezes, northern lights, gardens of vegetables and flowers, a field of lavender, the Redwoods close, my sister next door, and some place to play my piano.
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The morning commute, the afternoon commute, miles of tunnels, waiting at the same spot on the platform everyday.