The thunderstorm skirts Paris. Silently — the sound will not breach the apartment.

I wonder where I am. How I came to. Be here.

I reflect to the time when she and I were apart. Her spending summers in France. I, the United States. We wrote on airmail stationary, each recounting our summer storms.

The storm moves closer. I hear the thunder now. Rain plucks at the zinc.

Paris. It’s covered in zinc. Bars and roof tops as far as I can see. I close some windows. My heart can not close. The surges of affection from those years ago return.

Distant from so much. Time. Place. Family. I think of my mother. God, (an expression, not a deity) how I miss her.

The cat stirs from my movement to protect our home from the storm. It is brief. She quickly returns things to normal.

Tomorrow. Coffee is made. Bread toasted. A boy off to school.

About Richard Anderson

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