|Isla looking ever so much like her daddy. Was this child really ever in my house? I'm loving the one Cinderella shoe and princess dress hanging out of the closed trunk in the background. I'm wondering where the pumpkin is.|
|That's Boomer, a friend's dog. He's no longer with us now. I'm seeing yet another princess shoe, a frilly plastic one, the ones I like to throw out, in this shot.|
|Mom's eye view of Isla. She still has those crazy swirls on top of her head. It's as if three cows were licking her head at the same time. It makes for tricky hairdressing. I can still imagine the way her hair smelled and the way she stroked my side with her velvet paw when she was nursing. She's going to be 5 really, really soon.|
|Dancing in the soon-to-be loft in our then-unfinished barn which is now finished and filled with hay and very, very far away back in Vermont. Sniff.|
And this is just Isla. There's so much more.
What strikes me the most is it's like looking at someone elses' life. Was that me? Is that us? Were we there? Is that our baby? My meadow? My sky?
The beauty of our home in Vermont bowls me over. Especially in the fall just before winter is about to settle in and rule over the land with a bitterly-gorgeous hand. Sometimes I think the whole point of our being here in France, aside from the amazing cultural experience, foreign language experience and pure adventure of it, is to make me realize, once and for all, just how lucky we are to have all this waiting for us back home.
God I hope the Dead heads living there don't burn it down.
It's hard to believe, from looking at that precious face, by age four, this kid would have nothing but poop on her mind.