Graves spread out in every direction, like a sea of lives passed around us. The walk there had been cold, we shivered at the entrance and looked at the names on the map. Here, underneath this stone slab, lies the body of someone who changed your life. Great monuments twist and turn towards the sky, angels frozen in perpetual mourning, ancient headstones crack and fall apart under the unstoppable forces of nature.
We came to the edge of the hill, where more graves yet stretched to the edge of the horizon, and the sun came out from beyond the dreary skies. And oh, how the world will change in sunlight. Our skin thawed, our steps lightened, we stood still staring at the miracle of the precipice of spring. At the edge of the parc, little yellow croci took their first trembling steps into the light and I laughed. This is what we came for. This is the magic unplanned.
Our French stumbled across the markets and bookstores, our bags filled with a life we pretended was ours. At the end of the night, we stepped lightly down wooden stairs and squeezed into a cramped corner of the bar, as five, ten, fifteen faces around us stirred the air into a frenzy with folk music. A simple beginning, fingers dancing across the instruments, I closed my eyes and let my heart leap in my chest. The air was warm when we returned to the apartment.
I am ready to believe,
again.
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