This is where we brought you when you were out here, but it won't look at all the same to you. You came in the summertime, when everything was brown already and the wildflowers were gone. It was a different kind of beautiful. The ride made you and Timprov a little nauseated, do you remember? Well, I think it would have been more worth it this time. There were whole slopes of flowers, and then up at the summit, every few steps took us to a different kind of flower. I couldn't get pictures of all of them. Just some. But I hope you enjoy the pictures, as I think you would have enjoyed the real thing. You're good at enjoying things, always have been.
You were one of our first visitors out here. We didn't quite know what to do with you, didn't have the same repertoire. But we had fun anyway, wandering around the city and up and down the mountain and over by the ocean with you, and it looked like you had fun, too. I was a little worried while we were waiting for you at the bus station, wondering if we'd trip over words for the whole weekend, wondering what it would be like to have you around in my grown-up house. And then you were there, and we barely had your bags in the trunk when we were us again, and comfortable.
I don't know when I'll see you again. I'll try to make it out for your wedding, but I don't know what we'll be able to manage. And even if we do come, it'll be a wedding, and it won't be the same, just as mine wasn't. There'll be no time for me to make you go "Merciful heavens! Marissa, I can't believe you just said that!" There'll be no time for us to drink coffee and share what we've been reading. I think now I'd be willing to share what I've been writing, too, and sometimes it makes me sad to think that we may never get to do that on a regular basis all the time. It seems like that's part of the way the world should work, having coffee and reading out passages to you. I miss you. And when we went up the mountain again, I thought of you.