There is a sprig of fresh thyme in the fridge that is reminding me of Paris in the most heartaching way.
In Paris, especially the last few months when I discovered the secret stash of entire armfuls of thyme and bay leaves for 2� at the Hypermarch�, the cupboard directly above my stove was always filled with slowly-drying sprigs that smelled impossibly sharp.
This evening we wandered back out into the slightly-less cold despite my pyjama jaunt this morning, and picked up armfuls of fresh things that had the cashier typing in prices rather than using the handy barcode this-is-fake-food tags.
This evening I puttered by the stove with nothing in my head by the leeks and other long thin slices on the cutting board, remembering evenings in Paris where the boys would run back with their porcelain plates to get thirds.
Remembering Guillaume taking home a tubful of just the leftover sauce to pour over rice, remembering Maja hording the vegetables for lunch at school in the morning.
Some days I am a handful of memories, the haunting ones sit and add spice to the moments that put smiles in my tears.
Some days I am a cannon pointed at the next impossible obstacle.
Some days I am a canvas of the impossibly beautiful things that have wafted across my warpath.