RP for rememberthelady.
It is not precisely Monticello, not as Jefferson remembers it. No, the Monticello in Jefferson's memory is ever imperfect, ever in process of improvement and renovation. He could never fully settle on the precise way he wanted it to go, so it was never truly finished.
Here, though, it is just as he imagined, to such details as he may have taken long years to invent. The proportions are exact; the architecture, elegant. The fields are verdant in excess, with greater yield than they ever may have achieved in reality.
It is, indeed, perfect. Though that only draws Jefferson towards the world of the living all the more magnetically, all the more irresistibly. This perfection is elegantly lonely, and more acute punishment for it. The perfection he held in his mind, during life, is expressed outside him in this place, and it is truth, this time.
Jefferson halts, on the grassy lawn outside the house itself, waiting, and hoping that Abigail Adams would find her way here.
Here, though, it is just as he imagined, to such details as he may have taken long years to invent. The proportions are exact; the architecture, elegant. The fields are verdant in excess, with greater yield than they ever may have achieved in reality.
It is, indeed, perfect. Though that only draws Jefferson towards the world of the living all the more magnetically, all the more irresistibly. This perfection is elegantly lonely, and more acute punishment for it. The perfection he held in his mind, during life, is expressed outside him in this place, and it is truth, this time.
Jefferson halts, on the grassy lawn outside the house itself, waiting, and hoping that Abigail Adams would find her way here.