I don't expect for a minute that anyone will realize how intensely poignant for me is this particular arrangement of New Mexican mat, William Morris willow-leaf napkin, Wedgewood plate, silver-plated knife, and marmalade pot shaped like a lemon: this is how the breakfast table is always laid in my father's house, before he heads off to bed - and this place-setting-for-one is what I said goodbye to early this morning. An age later, a Los Angeles evening has palm trees and the Goodyear Blimp. I'm not sure how two such incompatible scenes can be called "home," but so it goes.
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