Walking to work in a misty London rain, through the tube, above ground to cross London Bridge, the image of St. Paul's dome blotted out by fog. Sharing a lunch table with an elderly British gentleman whose eyebrows have escaped from an Eric Carle book. It is an outdoor cafe in a perfect 73 degree day. I am eating a chicken, avocado and lemon mayo sandwich on spelt and sipping an espresso. I have no doubt that perhaps a year from now I will yearn for the sun, or my 15 minute commute in my factory sealed car. And maybe I'll crave Hellmans, but for now these vignettes balance the child who can manage to say “I want to go home” in 12 syllables.
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