My thoughts are far away this morning.
I think they are in France.
The outskirts of Paris in a forgotten little neighborhood that is still and hushed. It smells like rosemary and fresh baked baguette. And when it snows here, the flakes come down in alphabet shapes and dance together to spell things like “ooh la la” and “creme brulee” before they make their way to the ground. The snowmen are all wearing berets and smoking Gauloises. Miss Clavel walks down the street with twelve little girls in two straight lines. The specialty at the cafe on the corner is chocolate crepes.
I’m brought back to here and now by the momma on the bus that really is saying shh, shh, shh. Her little one fidgeting in her lap. A bundle of fleece and crocheted blankets.
Outside the window the snowflakes fall slowly and almost singularly. Just a hint of winter today. Something to tease the palette. Mother Nature’s amuse buche.
