I felt you first, in
Place Trocadero—a whisper?
or premonition
in June, the Tour de France raced past our window and your father raced to the sixteenth to write in a chateau. I raced with your brother who chased yellow balloons in Jardin Luxembourg. His whole body a smile, even the French had to laugh. And your sister, named for a French queen, disappeared to use her new language, easier on her tongue and delicious—crepe, glace and anything au chocolat covered her face after the carousel ride. It was June and filled with Parisians, waiting for August holidays. It was June and I waited for you.
You told me to read
Mann, Hesse, Grasse, and then to draw
the body alive
in wet February. We wandered down rue Raspail, me protecting you even then. Even before I saw you. Weaving slowly searching for Hemingway. And Fitzgerald. And food, every odour grabbing our attention. We ate a demi-baguette sandwich with Comte from Paul because it had the shortest line and softest bread, and is the only thing the doctors let me eat, afraid all the French diseases would threaten you and I would not let anything threaten you. We drank Orangina. And I worried you would come out orange. I worried about the war in Iraq. I worried your brother and sister would not know you, as I already knew you. I worry that you would know pain. I didn’t want you to know pain.
We drew with Chagall
three hours sketching, intaking
portfolio, held
in October, by you rushing to class on 5th Avenue, eating your bagel extra salmon hold the pickle. But New Yorkers don’t eat and walk you tell me. They sit in parks so you pause at Union Square to talk to your French friend who sells French books and you buy one. And write a poem about G and her college sadnesses. And text me your sketches. Nature morte maman. Bisous, Eva.






