I've never been very good at history, my excuse being that I have difficulty applying my imagination to events that I cannot change, what with them having already happened.
Wandering the grassy kilometers of Melun and Fouju and Fontainebleu, suddenly that month we spent on French history came alive.
From medieval castle lying in ruins, to the church that's been there since there were sextons to witness knightings, to the pink brick castle estates of the time of the Louis'. So many aeons all in a row.
I have to admit, my romantic bent preferred the worn stones of the medieval to the still-manicured lawns of the Vaux-en-Vicomte, but my favourite part was the ice cream salesman that recognized Cristal from when she used to come by during high school.
We went to see her childhood house, the barn that her parents renovated together up until their divorce. The shutters on the windows had changed, and a new dark wooden door put up, but the oblong yellow stone house sent me reeling through my own memories of Poland.
Right up until we wandered around the corner to say hello to her childhood friend's mom.
So many people remembering her childhood, so much pride in their eyes at how grown up she's gotten, wishing her luck in her adventures overseas, and making sure I'll take good care of her.
I heard Mme. Lucea whisper in her ear that she was glad that Cristal had someone like me to welcome her there.
My shoulders stayed proud while my brain slumped momentarily
realizing
that I have no such childhood memories, no such people, no friends from high school to call up once every few years and mutually congratulate each other.
Maybe that's why I went into such overdrive meeting people the last few years. To make up for my lack of community.
I went about it all wrong, but that's fine, and my life is a bright glowing thing and filled with such wonder anyhow
and ten empty years is nothing compared to the rushing warmth of the past two or three, and the upcoming decades.
Momentarily, though, momentarily it got a little cold in my sunbeam.
This morning, up with the roosters while Cristal and her WAY TOO COOL mom slept in, I wandered muddy paths and called out good-mornings to rosy-cheeked strangers.
Kissing her mom goodbye, and remembering giggled conversations far past midnight on mattresses laid out on the stones of the kitchen floor, I saw Cristal's face turn its own sort of rosy at our matching grins and giggles.
Her mother and I could not be more alike, I only hope to keep my laugh that light and contagious past half the hurdles her mother has leaped in her fifty years.
We paused momentarily on the sill of the cottage, watching a heron spread its wings to their fullest span.
I have a thousand errands to run today, ending with the departure of my bed, hopefully most of my packing, and quite probably, a nice long bath with the last few inches of my lavender.
On the plane on Monday, amidst all my tears, I will remember the yellow stone house, and Stephen's wood-and-stone cottage from Bretagne that I haven't seen (but still dream of) since 1997, and I will dream of living somewhere with similar peace and flora and soaring spaces, and perhaps one day I will return to live in them
but for now
they are embedded as deeply into my heart as they are into the rocky ground they were built upon.