E remembers Brooklyn. She talks about it sometimes, about things we used to do there and people we used to hang out with. We left last April, just as spring was springing and trees were blooming. That last image of our old home seems to have stayed with her.
On one of the first really spring-y days this year, she stepped outside and, brow furrowed, stated:
"It smells like something out here."
Then the lightbulb goes off and she breaks into a wide grin and announces:
"It smells like when we were in Brooklyn!"
A couple of days later, on her first tricycle ride of the season, on the tricycle she got for her first birthday...in Brooklyn...she exclaimed:
"Isn't this just the goodest day? It's just like when we lived in Brooklyn."
No pressure or anything, of course. Until yesterday:
E: We should move. I want to go to a different house.
M: To a different house in the same neighbourhood?
E: No. To a house in Brooklyn. I want to go back to Brooklyn now.
Oh. I see. Hm.
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