Would it be cliche to say emptiness pervades my entire being, that I'm alone inside myself and in the world around me? Fault me for saying it but there's the truth. I'm sitting in the Roissy airport with only a newspaper and a sandwich for comfort. Where are the loving arms I know? Where are the smiling faces I once knew?
I'm broken and drained--split equally between the love I have in Paris and the comfort of home. Neither of us expected the end to be like this. Neither of us ever wanted it but, as so often happens in life, we lived the days that were given to us--dark and hollow as they were.
I live with regrets. Regret that I couldn't stay longer to comfort my love. Regret for the things we put off only to have fate put them off for us ever longer. I want to believe I will be back. I want to again look out a window and see the glittering glamor of Eiffel's tower. Whether anything follows from this day is a guess only father time can make. So, I take comfort in thoughts and memories. Broken as I am inside, I try instead to concentrate on the sandwich and paper in front of me. It's all anybody can really do.
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3 comments:
i hope its at least a good sandwich
If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
Ernest Hemingway
to a friend, 1950
The sandwich was lovely, thank you Bjorn.
And that is a great quote, Derek, thanks.
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