Sunday, April 07, 2019

Les glycines


Making hummous: the satisfactory blubbing sound of the putty-coloured mixture that is just the right texture, not too sloppy, not too dry.

One of the things I like most about our bedroom is the reflection of tree branches on the back wall. The shadow leaves sway and dance on the yellow surface.

I envy people who have canopies of wisteria in their gardens – the soft old-lady violet colour is just beginning to appear around town now, and then in a flash it will fade and wilt before the second, weaker blossoming.

It’s Sunday lunchtime, I cycle down a street with multiple bars where men throng outside in muted joy. They shout-speak to each other in Spanish and Portuguese.

At the market in Saint-Michel an old man on a bench in conversation with a similar old man. They are both wearing all-over grey. The first man holds a vertical forefinger in front of his lips and the conversation seems to take a confidential turn. The finger looks as if it has seen service on building sites.

That moment at airport arrivals  when you catch sight of a face that you know by heart but have not seen in several months. In a split second you drink in those beloved features and register the slight changes that have come about.


Being confined indoors most of the day, just the four of us, is reminding me of the days when my children were wee and most of our weekends ...