I remember Anna’s house. I am 6, maybe 7 years old and I’m in the small living room of her home. Her old fragile voice and my mom’s fade away as I lose myself in the miniature on the wall. An idyllic landscape, with an adjacent mini-village of picturesque houses, a church that towers over everything, and shady streets. I am there and I am not there, my child’s body glows with excitement while my imagination feeds on the suggestion. How I love that sensation. That curious gaze into the distance, and a sweet longing for how the wind blows at that one point on the horizon.