Sunday in Paris

Morning stretches, slow and luxurious

The markets blink open their eyes

The café is full of people-watching people

The streets are a painting

We gather coins dropped by an elderly woman

Clattering on the cobblestones

Merci beaucoup! Merci! Merci!

Her words are a poem

Jardin du Luxembourg comes to life

Stealing time from Musée d'Orsay

The bells of Notre Dame ring the hour

The history is a novel

The sun yawns and sets across Montmatre

On Pont Neuf a couple stops to kiss

Paris rests with an enigmatic smile

The city is art

Ten Years

Twenty-one planes lined wing to wing, filled with people from everywhere. They waited, and worried, and wondered when things would go back to normal, and when they could go home.

They did not know what we knew. That the towers had fallen. That, for now, there was no normal.

* * *

“Did you hear what’s happening in the US?” he said, and from his voice I knew it wasn’t good. I pushed aside the freshly folded laundry and turned on the television to see the North Tower collapse. I pressed one hand to my mouth, placed the other on the round of my belly and felt the life inside move. And  I wept.

* * *

We gathered what we thought was useful - blankets and towels, clothes and toys - and wished we could do more. I would see them at the shopping centre, buying what they needed to get them through. You could tell them by their faces, tired and lost. The plane people.

They were going on vacation, going home, going away. They were coming back from a honeymoon, from a business trip, from the funeral of a loved one. Instead they landed here, in a place far from everything. Some laughed as they told it, and then were ashamed for laughing.

* * *

Long days passed. The dust settled, the clean-up began, the way was cleared. The plane people left, headed for London, Vancouver, Paris, Little Rock, Frankfurt, Columbus, Oslo. New York. They left for the places they called home. We knew them now, and they knew us.

None of us would ever be the same.

September on the Shelf

I just discovered that September is Be Kind to Writers and Editors month. How timely. We all know a writer or editor who could use some kindness. I've compiled a list of nice things to do for the writer or editor in your life:

• Keep pencils on hand, in plain sight, sharpened and ready to use. 
• Make extra coffee. Writers love coffee. And while you're at it, bake some brownies. Writing is hungry work.
• If your writer is staring blankly into space, do not interrupt. It may look like boredom or laziness to you, but your writer is actually hard at work.
• Refrain from using such phrases as "Writing? Are you still doing that?" "Don't quit your day job" or "Those who can, do. Those who can't, edit."
• Smile and nod politely when your writer offers to read from his or her latest WIP, even if you don't care about Charangorath, the Thing from Ilgnah Swamp.

September is also Library Card Sign-up Month. If you don't have a library card, now's the time to get one. This card is a must have for every reader and writer. And libraries offer so much more than books. There are always fun and interesting happenings like book clubs, story time, book sales, and story-telling workshops. Check out your local library for a list of events.  

Quiet

It's the first day of school. My children have gone and I am home alone to contemplate just what to do with all this quiet.

My oldest stood at the door this morning, ready to start her senior year of high school. "Where did the last twelve years go?" she asked. Indeed. Where did they go? It seems just a few moments ago she was her sister's age, starting the first grade. With one more in his last year of elementary school, it is a year of milestones.

I will take advantage of the quiet to get some writing done, and also sneak in some reading while I'm at it. I'm re-reading a book called Irish Folk and Fairy Tales (don't say that too quickly in polite company). My brother bought me this book on his last trip to Ireland, and that is an interesting story in itself. It isn't often you must pass inspection from a big sheep dog before you can make your purchase.

The book is full of the slightly creepy and mysterious bits of lore that are popular in Ireland, and also on this island. Fairies are not the sweet little things Disney would have you believe. These tales are just right for welcoming the onset of autumn, when all sorts of tricksy creatures arrive with the early dark.

It's so quiet. There's hardly a sound. Except for the wind. And that scratching in the basement...

Shadow Play

The advertisements plastered all over town: Santino’s Shadow Company Spectacle. The flyers promised an unforgettable performance, and I, with nothing better to do on a cold winter evening, found myself strolling past the Shadow Company theatre. I use the word theatre in the loosest sense, as the building was little more than a shack with chairs set out for the audience and a white canvas tarp hanging from the ceiling near the front of the room. A potbelly stove crackled with heat, and that was enough to entice me inside.

I did not know what to expect from a “Shadow Spectacle” but was soon drawn in by the sight before me. Displayed on the canvas in frightening silhouette, not actors but dark metaphors playing out a tale of secrecy and betrayal, violence and tragedy. In the flickering light they shifted and danced. I was enthralled and chilled to my very bones.

I lingered long after the show ended hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the persons responsible for my unsettlement. When no one emerged I cautiously made my way behind the tarp – there was no one. I stood, stunned with disbelief. There was no back entrance, and I was certain that no one had passed me, yet I was left quite alone in this small room with the tarp and a dying fire.

I walked home, my mind still clouded with dark and obscure thoughts. As I turned onto Main Street I noticed my shadow, shifting erratically under the flickering streetlamps in a macabre display. I brought my hand to my face and felt immense relief that I was, indeed, still there.