it is peony season

sounds of: silence
a pot of: half-dead kalanchoe

my dad & i rode bicycles to the orangerie to see the water lillies like the first time we did in paris. it felt like we were in a summer sun room overlooking the wilting willow trees and water twilight; monet is "in communion with nature and the ephemeral moment." sitting on the edge of the tuileries, overlooking place de la concorde, the seine, the national assembly, the grand palais, & the eiffel tower in the distance, my dad just said "goodness," in his soft, unnassuming way. when in paris, linnea & mr. bloom stay at the hotel esmerelda, just around the corner from shakespeare & company.

the owner of the hotel has a blunt bob of steel-coloured hair that is always topped with a beige hat, no ribbon. her right eyelid does not open and sits heavy over, what one can only assume, to be another gray eye. she has a beaked nose and flat lips that are usually open as she mumbles to herself. every morning she feeds the birds in the park, & every evening she sits on the benches outside of the bookshop & putters around. once in a while, she'll venture into the shop.

-est-ce que vous avez du vin rouge, madame? she asked me once.

-non madame, on ne vends pas du vin, nous sommes un librairie.

-bon, d'accord, je l'ai vu dehors mais si vous ne voulez pas le vendre. . . and she puttered out.

another time she came in as i was sitting, ever regally, atop the till platform, & asked through the bouquet of peonies that i had bought that morning at the market if she could buy one packet of gauloises.

on the last night of the festival, "real lives: exploring memoir & biography" that we hosted at the bookshop, madame esmerelda puttered over as the champagne supply was dwindling & the cheese & figs were all gone. we gave her a leftover baguette and her one eye lit up; she almost didn't believe her luck. "mes oiseaux, mes oiseaux!" she muttered, ecstatic.

i asked her why she called the hotel esmerelda: after the gypsy in hugo's Hunchback or named after herself? "non, c'est pas pour ca; c'est juste que c'est un nom jolie." she asked our names, g & i, & how old we were. at g's 29, madame esmerelda said "bon, bais, c'est pas vielle." at my 21, she smiled & said "ah, la jeunesse."