Today was unseasonably warm, summery. I wanted to retrieve my shorts from the back of the closet, dig up my turquoise flip-flops even though I wore them thin. I wanted ripe peaches, the juice trailing down my chin the way it used to when I was 5 and didn't much care about the stickiness. I wanted backyard baseball with my brother in New Hampshire, the bases made of tree roots and upturned rocks and fistfuls of hay. I wanted the sound of crickets, the chlorine sting of a pool. Instead, I played with alcohol ink and small rectangles of paper and drank iced coffee with a hefty splash of cream. "Art is the only way of running away without leaving home," said Twyla Tharp, and I was glad for the instruction and reminder today. In the bright sunshine of an October afternoon, I let myself run back to my shorts and flipflops, the peaches, the baseball, the crickets, the pool, and the girl I always carry inside of me peeked out and said Hello.