a bouquet of words

We used to sit in cafes, and she’d dip her croissant into her café crème while I’d dip mine into my hot chocolate.

She always said that she felt more at home in France than in North America. That even her name, Yvonne, was at home in this country.

She never made me feel as if I were holding her back from anything. No, I was her companion, and I would be by her side through any dream and determination.

We both have trouble sleeping at night. We have troubled minds and are restless souls. It’s as if letting the night slide past without us waking to breathe in it just weren’t right.

I think we both sometimes struggle trying to find our place in life. I used to sit in my bathrobe, bawling into her lap, because it all felt like too much for me.

Thank god we love the good things as much as we do. That we can rejoice in music, food, words, travel, wine and good company, so that it all becomes worth it.

She makes it all worth it. She’s taught me all that I need to know. I walked into life with every door closed, and she taught me to just walk up and open them.

From across the ocean, I want to thank you for being my mother without a bouquet of roses or a Hallmark card.

Instead, I’ll drink in your name, I’ll live my life and I’ll not be afraid to speak up, I’ll dance in the streets and write in my journal, I’ll stop for cafes and think of myself as an artist.

It’s been a beautiful weekend in Paris, and I’m thinking of you.