Days three and four: Giverny, Lisieux, Caen, Bayeux, St. Honorine-de-Ducy.
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Days one and two: Paris, Neuilly, Giverny (briefly).
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In winter the well was dry, so I wondered: why now? Was it listening to Albin de la Simone on repeat? Was it the texture of herbs under my fingers as I chopped them? Or maybe the smell of the lemon zest? (Something that comes to life by scratching a surface?) Was it still the quiet restraint of "Mrs. Dalloway"?
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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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That evening I paced across the rug in the living room through a dense cloud of my thoughts. Do you ever feel as though you are just...waiting? Like you are paused watching something far away grow close, but you can't tell if it's good or bad, and you can only stand and wait?
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If you don't nail down the holidays, hold tight to the warm evenings and baton down the sunny afternoons, you'll lose it all in an August windstorm. I'm never as strategic as I would like. Some summer Fridays pass by and all I do is binge watch TV. Every May I scroll past the weeks on my calendar saying things like: Bermuda, Montreal, New Orleans. It never happens.
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Thinking back, this was a week of two things: friends and weather. I had many dinners and drinks in all my favorite places, and as I commuted I pulled my jacket collar over my neck. Sure, there were brief moments of sun and warmth but I only experienced them on my ten minute lunch breaks. It rained quite often.
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"I was going to say, if you're afraid of needles, just you wait till you have kids someday."
"The epidural needle, you mean?" I said.
"No, I mean, childbirth. What it does to you down there. I mean, it rips it to shreds," she laughed.