In Seattle, it’s spring, with emerald grass, and tulips and star magnolias blooming. The trees put out lacy canopies of new leaves, or flowers so pink and heavy they’re grotesque, nearly. Beside Alki Avenue, running ribbon-like along the shore of West Seattle, are the long vistas of the Sound and its silent grey waters. The cars on the Avenue loom beneath us for a second before receding toward a distant vanishing point. On the edge of the season and the Sound, we teeter peacefully on the verge of all.
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