… in truth I am not waiting, but also flying in my soul to meet her, a journey that has taken me across the span of my own lifetime and the gulf of that same mysteriously mapped universe.

We pull up under the port cochère (which I am NOT allowed to call ‘the car tent’, even though I built it) just as the front door opens. Jackson, our eldest, saunters out with a dish rag over his bare shoulder like he owns the place.