Every now and then, I get a glimpse: I’m rubbing lotion onto Eleanor’s back, her hair is pulled over her shoulder, and suddenly I see her when she’s ten, or sixteen, or twenty-one.  The adult Ella is there, masked behind the round toddler tummy and dimpled knees.  It’s like catching sight of an emerald snake darting through underbrush, or the flare of light within a lantern.  Something that catches you off-guard, but seems perfectly natural, once you catch your breath.