Dear L,
It’s four thirty-five in the morning, still quiet outside my window: your last minutes of quiet. The last fox is hurrying back home from a night on the town. My coffee is quickly getting cold from the damp breeze. The first train has not yet been; I’ve been on the chaise longue since the last one a few hours ago, staying up like a proper Javanese from Thursday night through Friday morning—just being grateful if nothing else. The kids are fast asleep after very late supper and movie night after another active day, staying here for a bit away from the countryside on their long school holiday. The bladeless fan has been rotating for the last few days, my cigarette is fully charged and I don’t know what I’m about to write about. I’ve been learning to play mandolin and ukulele; I’ve been writing poetry and songs quietly, I guess it’s time for a fresh love letter after awhile although I don’t quite know where to start.
Just being grateful if nothing else, I guess I owe it to you to feel this way. It’s been a year and a bit since I started living here and until very recently my heart has been clinging on to Paris and the rites of passage to my rebirth so heavily that my eyes couldn’t see anything else. Now sipping the last drops of my cool coffee with the city of lights fading away in the background, I can see dew on the tip of my monstera deliciosa leaves and suddenly London is no longer as dry as its gins. So what if I don’t go to jazz clubs every other night; so what if I have to bake frozen croissants (they’re au beurre ardoise) myself; so what if I have to replace ‘bonjour’ with the ol’ ‘good morning’; and so what if I have to let those Parisian guys impulsively ask another pretty girl(bonne chance, les gars !) for a coffee or a drink in the streets? At least I’ve been to Ronnie Scott once this year; Waitrose provides beautiful Scottish moules (20% off on Fridays!); and you are always quick to offer to carry my heavy luggage.
The first train has now arrived and left; cars and buses are sporadically passing outside the flat; recent trips to Paris, Bellagio, and Istanbul have been stacked away where they belong—beautiful memories. I am with you now; I’m in this with you. I no longer want to be a hero; I don’t want to be rescued anymore. I just want to breathe and grow
: it is time to grow.
I’ve been crying and I’ve been partying here; I’ve been busy plotting projects and I’ve been suffering in silence though I speak the language very well—I wonder why it’s taken me so long to feel belong (took me less than four minutes to bond with Paris) but I’ve found a friend in you now I know where I belong. I suppose the emergency appendix removal a month ago has given me back something else, something useful for my survival—strength, for you’ve been unpretentiously looking after me in my defeat and my pain. The wounds are drying, darling, and soon this mind might be able to walk normally again, to run and to cycle, even to be taken on a ride.
A flock of pigeons have just flown over the road to the railway platform; one or two commuters are in sight—I suppose there will still be those out there on standby to let me down, but my girl’s just been laughing in her sleep and I know you’re awake soon to remind me I am not alone—it’s ten to six. My eyes are heavy but my heart feels light, I haven’t felt this secure going through lonely hours possibly since the day I left my mother’s womb. You may think I’m exaggerating, but if you’ve tasted my tears you must appreciate my self-pity slightly more than before.
I know you slap my arse every so often and nag my weakness in your British accent every chance you get, but those underground steps and train journeys must be done, the new pages must be written and I am grateful that you never go missing, that you are in this with me—sometimes I feel that is why I am in this at all, for now even when I’m sleepy I feel awake and when I’m tired I still feel nurtured.
Passed seven hundred words and I still don’t know what to say to you, nothing that could possibly convey how I truly feel, how you make me feel—just being grateful if nothing else. I guess, for certain things, to end is more difficult than to start after all, but this is a new story there is no need to think of an end. Nine to seven though, I have a three-hour sleep to look forward to, so come what may: good night and good morning.
je t’embrasse !
d.o., 2 aôut 2019
Imagined Paris 