Post Script

I'm not sure you should do with a French blog after you have left France... write about nostalgia for French life? The pleasures of reuniting with your own country? The confusion and the emotion involved in flipping your life upside-down like a pineapple cake?

I could do some of that.
a) I miss the burning curlicues, the smell of Axe, the yellow kitchen, the walking everywhere, the soothing lull of the vowel sounds of the flowing French language.

b) I love the comfort of English, the nearness of family, the best friend reunions and gym inscriptions. My guitar.

It is too simplified. Let me try again.

The days leading up to the end were the longest and emptiest, the fastest, and the most fragile. I don't remember them anymore. I barely remember the packing up and the giving away, the emptying of the fridge and the returning of the key.

I thought I would go alone, but S ended up driving me. He came home from work and we cried in the room, seeing the awful emptiness that hadn't been, the significance of the symbols, the space I had occupied. The house walked out with us as I gulped air in shaky sobs, avoided eye contact, held it together.

A field was on fire just outside of Paris. We watched fire engines race to the scene in a futile attempt to reduce the damage.

We stayed in a hotel close to the airport, and it looked like a fancy tree house with its A-shaped frame. I thought it would be worse than it was, actually, because he finally forgave me and told me I could go. We talked and held hands until our eyes closed on their own.

He paid 8 euros for parking that morning. We clutched each other in handfuls, holding onto whatever we could, taking up space in front of the flipping Delta itinerary board. We tried to say goodbye, but he waited anyway; I told him, I won't be able to look back at you. He said it was okay; he would wait regardless.

I frantically searched for his eyes at every turn, needing to keep him in view, desperate to know that he was still there. It took me an hour to get to the counter, during which time my computer bag strap snapped and hit me in the cheek, and my luggage fell over, crushing the woman who was standing behind me.

We met up again before security, and laughed instead of crying.

He said, "I just feel like this isn't good-bye."

And so we said, "See you later," and smiled as if it were only Christmas.