Thanks for the Memories

Springtime

1996.

Being in Paris

for the first time

with someone I love

truly, madly, deeply

(even after we've been together for

more than two weeks already,

driving all over Italy

and France, having a great time

even though everyone said

that more than three weeks

of constant togetherness

would make us both crazy )

Romance.

Sidewalk cafés and wonderful little restaurants.

Staying at The Royal Monceau,

dining in the restaurant there

and stealing sideways glances

at Omar Sharif and his two lady companions,

both elegantly dressed and of a certain age.

Being delighted that the French

were so friendly

despite my rusty French language skills

and the many holes in my vocabulary.

(I could make myself understood in the present tense --

at least most of the time --

be polite, and order food for both of us.

Merci beaucoup

Mrs. Fletcher, Ms. Smith, and Mrs. Forrest,

you taught me well.)

History.

Art.

Musée d'Orsay on Mother's Day

when I know the kids

are safe at home in

Seattle's suburbs

with a responsible nanny,

knowing that they weren't

too freaked out about the earthquake

I just knew would happen while we were gone,

the one that rattled dishes in the cupboards

and made the chandelier swing

but didn't break anything.

(And to my friends, who thought I was being

a neurotic mommy when I told them that

yes, I was excited about the trip

but I was really worried about the kids

because there was going to be an earthquake

while we were gone:

I told you so.)

A stroll along the Seine,

seeing the young couple

stealing a kiss in the shadows,

trusting that love would last forever.

Maybe for them it did.

But at least I have wonderful memories

of Paris in spring

and Musée d'Orsay on Mother's Day.