Trying

And so my parents left Toulon, on the Mediterranean coast. They now live in a small prettyish town on the river Seine. Black alders grow on its banks, tall poplars heavily laden with gleaming mistletoe. There is a cold and beautiful medieval collegiate church which looks like Notre-Dame-de-Paris’ little sister.

It is very far from Toulon.

Does it matter ? And why does it feel like something or someone somewhere died or was forgotten ?

Soon February will be on me, with its arrows of light. It will be pins and needles inside my head, and longing, longing, longing.

Oh, to see them again as they walk time through the sky, from one light to another – Mount Caume, Mount Faron, Mount Coudon. And crushed thyme on limestone hill paths.

I am trying to write a novel. It would feature an old English cottage garden and Cotswolds rolling hills. A beloved home under thick trees, and how to leave it. I am trying but not succeeding. One can only write about things that sit through one’s heart, or lungs, or guts. At least, it is the case for me.

 

 

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