from the past

So I must go to France. Of course. It will do you some good, my mother told me. Yet I heard the fear in her voice. Whenever I visit my father, she is worried that I might not come home. It is strange and we have been discussing it for years, still it's just the way she is. C is stable, her mother called last night. Anxious woman with a high-pitched voice. She once told us that when she was young she tried to make it darker by drinking a lot of whisky. Then she understood, her face turned crimson red and she left us with our mouths open. She is a lovely lady, that's for sure.


So my booked tickets made me dig in my wardrobe, and I found treasures. Old photo albums. My father is a photographer, meaning I have every minute of my life from France memorised in thousands of photos. In our old house he had a installed a dark room in one of our walk-in-closets. So there is not only a lot of photos taken, there are a lot of photos developed. Result - hundreds of albums. Invaluable for me. I have always been a sucker for the written word, for the illustrated images. 


Found one of her. Fathers wife that is. From one of the parties in the old house. She wore long black silk dresses. When she finally put on some heels, became an amazon and whirled around in the house - as the perfect hostess she was. As a child I loved to hide under tables. When she came looking for me, the skirt always reminded me of running horses. The silk fabric waved and showed off her shapely legs. We were both as proud of her, father and I. She was the foundation, the supporting pillar of our happy family. After her decease, it just wasn't was the same.. 

paris calling

Came home this afternoon and heard giggle from the kitchen. It was mother. She was sitting on a chair, dangling with her legs. The image of a little girl. I knew who she was talking to. There is only one person whose calls will transfer her into that. I knew it had to be my father on the other line..


My father. Tall, dark and mysterious. The one they talk about in movies, the one they describe in literature. He lives in Paris, Jean-François. Mother ones lived with him but decided to move back home to England, because she missed the weather she explained. But I knew that was not the real reason. So she moved, well we moved. But they continued to be together. Long distance romance. Every once in a while he'd be in England and they'd carry on like nothing had happened. Same thing when we were in France. Then father met his french love and they moved in together. But nothing could change the great love between my parents. One or two or even three persons to love is only natural. And I got along really well with his new female friend. So who would care..


So our lives were filled with love. Everybody loved everybody. C'est l'amour, elle est comme ça, explained my father. And I never questioned it. I never thought about it as something other than perfectly normal. I just lived with it, like everyone else..