This is a story about love. The hands of the craftsman, leathery and precise, carefully pulling aluminum along the lathe. The house, perched precariously on the ocean hillside by the freeway, so that you can never tell what is the sound of waves and what is the sound of traffic. The rough-carved old wooden statue of a penguin, newly painted each year, with its cartoon smile, set on the doorstep to ward away thieves and salesmen. The sidewalk, blue with sprinkled glitter, green with the reflection of trees. The teary-eyed blink of sunshine reflected off each windshield as it drives along. Careful calligraphy, an hour a letter, by mechanical hand, guided by an expert a thousand miles away. The cages full of rabbits, all full-bellied and content, all watching the dance outside. The spinning carousels of faded colors, kit-bashed by eager parents, left in the weed-blessed back yard after the children have moved away, safe as houses and adventurous as pilgrims. A single grape, sweeter and more lovely than a handful. Stretching exercises laughingly taught in an afternoon and rigorously repeated for decades. Scribbled notes memorized. Inside jokes rendered perfect and meaningless through decades of familiarity. Highways you can drive down with your eyes closed. Autumn in paradise.