When they finally arrived, when Alex had sat in the middle of the floor and declared this to be the most beautiful home that ever existed in any known Universe (they had been to a new planetarium just days before they left Alaska), Theresa started unearthing objects that she had forgotten that she had forgotten when they left for Alaska two years prior. A few of the boxes they carefully shipped hadn’t and wouldn’t arrive; they wouldn’t make the 4,500 trip, they would be in limbo for an undetermined about of time. What she found were photos of a great-great uncles who were vaudevillians, half-embroidered piecework of flappers (seems her great-grandmother couldn’t finish many art projects either), and musty pamphlets for stage shows and jazz reviews. Her great-grandmother had been a makeup lady at a counter in a fancy department store, her tiny frame shining and comfortingly perfect to her loyal customers at the bottom of the escalator (Dayton’s first). Theresa’s memories of her great-grandmother’s house were of butterflies on the walls and tucked into corners (no dark corners there, all was bright and sweet and beautiful and smelled of Shalimar), of ferns, of the color red. She realized as she walked around where she and Ben and Alex had landed that that’s almost exactly what she wanted to re-create, beauty like something out of a chrysalis: beauty like something that evolves over time and that makes people feel calm to walk into and sit in. Of the smell of perfume and candles and coffee brewing. Of store-bought cookies because baking wasn’t really a virtue of Theresa’s (or her great-grandmother’s) but the thought was. Of reds and warmth and light shining in and white candles and things from India. The lost packages (full of framed things and other objects and art and things they had bought or made in Alaska) lost a bit of their meaning and Theresa understood yellowing photographs and pages of books again.