Meditations on Paris
I miss the silhouettes of the Victorian buildings
cast on my boulevard in the morning air,
the footsteps echoing on the metro tile,
the elegant scrawls of Arabic graffiti on the walls.
I miss wishing I could decipher their curves.
I miss the narrow market streets at Denfert-Rochereau,
the fromagère, his round wheels of pale yellow cheese
stacked on spindly wooden tables on the sidewalks
next to the dusty windows of the old accordion shop,
open since 1892.
I miss hurtling underground through the city before dawn,
emerging outside the high arches and iron gates
of the Sorbonne, walking through the empty darkened halls
still smelling of the janitor’s soap and wax.
I miss Hôtel de Ville at night, strains of hot jazz
coursing through the air, the French women graceful
on their stiletto heels, even on the cobblestones.
I miss the boulangerie across the street,
the almond croissants sticky with nutty paste,
the tidy old man in front of me, buying a baguette.
I miss imagining his life, what his wife might look like
(her slight shoulders stooped, with curling white hair, and maybe a cane).
And I miss the cadence of the language, the rolling vowels
cascading off my tongue, the music of Montparnasse,
salade au chèvre chaud, bonne journée, monsieur.
I miss the twisting alleys of St. Germain, where Sartre used to walk with Beauvoir.
I miss walking by their graves in the afternoon,
just down the path from Baudelaire’s tomb.
I miss the crepe stands in St. Michel, the man spreading batter impossibly thin,
flipping the delicate dough, sprinkling on cheese, pepper, salt.
I miss the shaded gravel paths in the Luxembourg Gardens, the green benches,
the children sailing colorful boats across the fountain’s perilous expanse,
engaged in a silent naval battle.
I miss the easy flight to Rome, walking among the Coliseum’s crumbling arches,
eating gelato in the lukewarm November sun.
I miss imagining Hemingway sitting next to me at a café, drinking coffee,
at two in the afternoon.
I miss the plush red seats at the Opéra, knowing my grandfather sat there
seventy years before, listening to Mozart after the war.
I miss searching for the places in his photographs,
the ones he sent home to my grandmother in Pennsylvania,
their backs covered with scribbled comments.
I miss carrying them in my coat pocket,
consulting them like maps.
I miss running through the cemetery to find Oscar Wilde’s grave
with the man I loved, standing on tiptoe to kiss the stone,
and later, in bed, sharing three bottles of my favorite wine,
pale gold Jurançon, made from southern mountain grapes.
I miss the snow falling silent, fast, on the steeples of Notre Dame,
the streetlamps hazy and cold, cast with vague halos
in the last days of December.