France- a story

 Well, this will be a little different from my norm, but I can’t get this out of my head, and it seems a little long for a Facebook post. A random storyline playing through my head the last couple of days.

She walked with the slow, shuffling gait of the aged, slightly stooped from years of simple living, working with the hands, back bent diligently over work. Slowly, steadily she makes her way home on cobblestone sidewalks, the evening bustle of tourists and tradesmen closing up shop, the world rushing around her, not noticing the daily evening journey she takes. Ducking in a tiny doorway tucked into the long stone building that all runs together, separated only by shop signs and a random, inset colorful door, her wrinkled hand and worn finger punches in the code, opening the door to a dark, enclosed hallway. 

Narrow winding steps lead up and up to more doors, a small apartment with one window overlooking the sites and sounds of the city streets, letting a cool breeze into the stuffy 8x10 room that doubles as a bedroom and living space. A wire basket of herbs and flowers hangs over the wrought iron railing just outside the window. She sets down her bag of fresh foods and bread and lets out a gentle sigh as she turns from the window to begin preparations for a simple evening meal, pinching off a bit of basil from her window garden. She’s alone now. She thinks back to younger years, quieter streets, children laughing, neighbors calling to each other. She doesn’t know her neighbors now, and her children are all grown and gone to other parts of the country with lives of their own. Sigh. But it’s still a good life. There are still a few shopkeepers selling their wares whom she’s known for ages and sometimes they get together and reminisce over a good bottle of wine, recalling bygone days. 

Next door there’s a young girl, working in the business world. Full of energy and youth, riding her bike to work each day, sometimes grabbing a metro in the evenings with friends, she sometimes says “Bonjour” as she passes by and laughs, chatting with a friend on the phone, fumbling for her keys to manage the three locks on the door. Across the hall is the shared toilet.  It’s not fancy, but it’s affordable , and it’s Paris, after all. A boy whistles from the street below, sitting on his motorcycle, urging her to come down and race through the streets of the city until they come to their favorite park and throw themselves on the grass, gazing up a a blue cloudless sky as the day fades.  Some fruit, a baguette and some local, fresh cheese makes a feast as they marvel at the height of the Eiffel Tower and the glory and rush of being alive and being young.