I am four, maybe five years old, standing in the coastal grass of a wild property my family had big dreams for. The Manzanita grows dense around the edges of the clearing, and in the evenings a cool breeze whispers through the oaks, the grass moving in long slow waves. The bermuda buttercups speckle the clover with bright bursts of yellow.

I remember picking one. The soft stem breaking between my fingers. And then — completely unprepared — a zap of lemony zest that I was not expecting but absolutely thrilled to discover.

None of what came after happened inside either.

I don't remember whose backyard it was. But I remember the tree — one of those coast live oaks that spreads itself wide and low like it has nowhere else to be. I was maybe seven years old, standing at the edge of a brook I hadn't noticed yet because above me, the canopy was doing something extraordinary. I didn't know what landscape design was. I was seven. I only knew how it made me feel. And I have never quite forgotten that feeling.