My last Monday here in Paris. I don’t have plans, which is good. The tears can flow freely.

It’s a holiday for France, and I’m up, doing chores. I’m not hungry because my heart hurts. But I have to clean the apartment, wash the linens, empty le frigo, etc., before my departure on Friday.

I have a few more people to see, things to do, and maybe an excursion or two in mind, but Saint-Placide is my base camp, as I sort it all out.

I’ve been wondering how to commemorate my time here. How to honor it? There isn’t one way. I think it’ll just be what it is. Cumulative. I don’t have a favorite place in Paris, because Paris lives in me now — she’s with me everywhere I go, whether sitting here at my desk with the fan whirring (keeping me more than comfortable), or prendre un café or prendre un verre avec mes amis, classes and events at l’Alliance Française, the ballet, museums, Giverny, all of it will be with me forever.

My apartment is where I have solitude, peace, and it has sustained me since that Saturday morning when I arrived in January not knowing a soul.

I’ve wanted to come here longer than I can remember, and I don’t know why. I cannot explain it. Paris has just always called to me, and when I came, she did not disappoint.

I used to sing lullabies in French to my children when they were babies. Every night, without fail. I still remember the words. One favorite was sung to the tune of Brahm’s lullaby, and some of the words are resonating with me right now:

Bonne nuit, cher enfant, quand tu dors dans mes bras. Le monde tourne en rond, et le jour reviendra…

Jours de larmes,
De sourires
Jours de peines
Ou de joies

Mais ce soir, tu t’endors comme an ange dans mes bras.

It’s as though Paris is holding me in her arms, singing gently to me, as a mother does.

Et je reviendra.