The front door of my childhood home — someone has left it standing open. Two cats, the small reclusive calico that lives with us now and a soft-white stranger with brownish face and paws, are inside playing. When they see me, they dash out. I follow them and close the door. To the east beyond the yard, a morning view of the High Sierra. I think of a painter in love with blue, long since buried in the snow. I remember what a lover knows and is so eager to begin — the taste of one bright apple, and footprints where no one else has been.