When I was Celia’s age, I lived in a city, too. I woke every morning groggy but happy. Never enough time, never enough sleep. New York was an engine that revved me and fed me. I had found my rhythm, my métier. I was in love with a place.

When I see Celia here, 3,000 miles west of where I made my home, I understand the contours of her affinity but not its particulars. That’s why I visit, to pick up the vibe, if only for a few days.

But inevitably what I feel is not just the pull of a place; it’s the pull of possibility. It’s the memory of being that age, with so much of life ahead of me. And I think, wherever she roams in the future, she will always have this place, this feeling of freedom, this city she’s made her own.

(Seattle’s Kubota Gardens)