I traveled to Seattle for the first time seven years ago, my love affair with the city having begun well before then. I could blame Nora Ephron and her 1993 classic, Sleepless in Seattle, for making me fall head over heels in love with a place I knew only from its romanticized on-screen portrayal, or my affinity for moody weather. But let’s not point fingers.
The halcyon days of summer are ripe with carefree ease: sunlight lingers like an old friend; long work weeks are interspersed with seaside escapes; and time outdoors is sacred.
I recently came back from Mexico with a sun-kissed nose, sand between my toes, and… a COVID infection. It’s not my first, and while I hope it’s my last, there’s really no telling. Three years into a pandemic that took the world by storm, much has changed.
At the age of seven, I declared myself an author and an illustrator, confidently nestled among the ranks of favorites – Eric Carle, Arnold Lobel, Roald Dahl – to name a few. Having begun writing in kindergarten, it seemed only natural. My young imagination was ripe with stories to tell, and I couldn’t fill the pages fast enough. My first-grade teacher would no doubt confirm this. I reeled in extra paper like most children do stickers and lollipops.