By the time you read this I will be unreachable. I will be on the other side. No—not that side. We are not talking about death. We are talking about something else altogether. Somewhere else. Hard to to describe, even harder to define, but I will try to do so in another missive.
I would like for you to meet me here, but I can’t tell you how. You will have to find your own way.
Not long ago I told my husband, “The book I want for Mother’s Day is You Could Make This Place Beautiful by Maggie Smith (not that Maggie Smith).”
He said, “We could make this place beautiful.”
I said, “We could, but first, more coffee…”
I recently published an audio story for subscribers to my author newsletter. It’s called “Tenderest,” and it’s about love, labor, and New York City.
You’ll find a brief and mostly true story, Les Oeufs: A Mystery on Quai de Grenelle, over at The Wandering Writer. You can read (and hear) the story here.
I also recently pondered Marginalia and the Strange Magic of Allée Marcel Proust. It’s not about Proust himself, but about one of my favorite spots in Paris, a bench on a dirt path beside Avenue Gabriel where I spent many hours waiting for a certain someone.
November was a foggy month. It reminded me of this:
“The house was very quiet, and the fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.”
? E.M. Forster, Howards End
Michelle