"Good luck with it," the pharmacist said. An expression hidden behind a blue mask; mine behind a toile one.
"Oh, yes, thanks," I said before turning and walking back home.
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Last Monday, February 3 I flew to Paris and met a series of sunny and somewhat-warm days. I stayed at the Hotel Therese, on a quiet street next to the Palais Royal. I revisited a few of the places I knew from the first time I went to Paris, back when I was a frightened little 20-something. There are still things I am afraid of, sure, but now, they feel dwarfed.
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I have so many memories in the yard. Growing up we used to swim in an above-ground swimming pool, which is now a bed of lettuce. In May we picked blueberries. When I owned a rabbit he would enjoy exploring the azalea bushes. We raked that yard all day after Katrina made landfall. One or our big pine trees fell.
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I always write: because you can see everything you will pass in advance, San Francisco is the only city where you can see the future.
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"Are you here to help out?" he asked. Before the question: "to help?" came out my mouth, I realized, he thought I was the help, the caterer.
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We rode the ferry in the dark, same as I had a long time ago, back then I was afraid, but now it feels powerful to be propelled across the water with the moon lighting the way to the other side.
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We walk from the metro to the restaurant and Paris looks especially beautiful. The sun won't set for hours, but it's like a prolonged magic hour. The way the streets are angled allows the sun to warm the buildings and sidewalks with an amber glow. We approach the fork in the road where the restaurant sits.
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"Be careful," my mother said as I put down a bowl of milk for him, and sat down on the concrete of the carport. I spent a lot of time trying crouched down, meowing, hand outstretched, to the cats that crossed the yard. They usually ignored me or an in the other direction. This cat seemed to need me. His cries were so desperate.
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