For Marie

The last time I saw you, we promised to meet up in Paris. I thought maybe we would play tourists and see the sights, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, The Louvre, Musee Rodin.



Deciding to be adventurous, we'd get on the metro; buy the discounted pack of ten tickets, pretend to be cosmopolitan, and ride through the lines. Inevitably, we would miss a stop and end up in the suburbs. Mairie de Montreuil, perhaps, where we will find that in the center of France you can discover Algeria and Morocco.


One evening would be spent sharing pitchers of rose, drunk on the sidewalk while marveling at the serendipity that had put us in a glamorous foreign city together. Marveling, too, at the opportunity to take up a friendship just barely begun those many years ago, in our own city thousands of miles away.


But it all never happened. As it was when you started climbing mountains and I was still selling words, life got in the way. So: Maybe next time. Or maybe never. Instead of memories of Paris, forever just a slight regret for missed connections and for journeys never taken.