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Saturday, November 14, 2015


I mewed inwardly when I saw them at Fresh Market, tiny apples each smaller than a golf ball, organic, pink and nestling sweetly against one another, and so I cradled a bag in my hands and turned it this way and that to check each wee apple before putting them in my cart next to green beans and red-skinned fingerling potatoes.

Two hours later, a text on my phone from an old friend, Oh, God, Paris!, and my attentions turned to that city, to my friends who live there, my family priest among them, he whose ordination I attended, who married us, baptized our then dying baby who then lived, celebrated my mother's life while mourning her death, and finally retired to his home in Paris last year.

Où est Albert? Au Bataclan, à la Rue Charonne, à la Rue Bichat, à l'Avenue de la Republique, au Stade de France, à la Rue Beaumarchais.

My college roommate, who transferred from Université Paris-Sorbonne my junior year, her sophomore, and proceeded to fill our apartment with little tables she found here and there, creating the strange reality that nobody could sit but everyone could lay something down, which she insisted made it feel like home, like Casablanca.

Où est Kenza? Au Bataclan, à la Rue Charonne, à la Rue Bichat, à l'Avenue de la Republique, au Stade de France, à la Rue Beaumarchais.

They are the last two of whom I wait to hear, and until then I sit tensely after a poorly slept night, though next to me the cat sleeps soundly on her blanket, her little white nose resting on her white-dipped paws which she is holding clasped together so they form a prayer fist no bigger than a tiny apple.

Où est mon cœur? Au Bataclan, à la Rue Charonne, à la Rue Bichat, à l'Avenue de la Republique, au Stade de France, à la Rue Beaumarchais.
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