Fields of tawny grasses stretch under cloud-swept oil-painting skies, reaching to ancient mountains worn down into barely-there hills that lie low, improbable, like northern mirages, upon the broad, expansive terrain.
Buildings gradually replace nature until the city enfolds us; cobbled and columned, its historic port stone works throw us back in time, back in place; mapled smoke scents tug at ancestral memories, tricking us, and we forget when and where we are as we huddle through the cold snow-drifting evening.
It is a mix, a throwing together of primitive new world, historic old world, of modern glass and layers upon layers of the past – our past.
In the blue-skied morning we take a drive up through the communities that make the city, past bakeries, cafes, small tucked-away shops, then off toward the setting sun, jetting out from beyond the buildings, back into countryside, blinded by the evening and oncoming headlights and the surprise that is time’s quick passing.
We bring our memories home with us, tucked between packages and delicate, tissue-wrapped morsels.