Through the night I kept a vigil, not continuously, but from time to time, noting the hour, the hour it was in Paris, where I’d be and what I’d be doing if I were there. The time I would have landed, the approximate time I’d be shuttle-bound for the city, the time I’d, rested, be walking to the market. But I’m not there, this year. Instead I’m in mourning on a deep, visceral level, for the sights and sounds, the quality of the light and air, the stones beneath my feet and the plastic Métro seat beneath my butt. The One Hundred Thousand Poets for Change event is about to take place. The intense conversation groups go on in the basement behind the St.-Germain-des-Prés, the people from all over the world huddled around the tables practicing their literal lingua franca, the kind, funny group leader I owe a Pariscope guide (“le mot de Cambronne,” you taught me). I want to see for myself whether the change has started at the Marché St. –Germain, that a Paris friend told me had been sold in its entirety for an Apple Store, and we wondered whether the Coolin Irish pub in it, where we were having lunch at the time, would have to relocate. 

I suspected last year that I wouldn’t be able to concoct any rationalization for spending the amount of money the plane fare now demands, plus the living expenses for an additional domicile for a month, plus a house sitter. Between the car and the house repairs and the trees that need pruning if not taking down, funds are stretched enough. It was why I tried to focus extra hard on every moment, why I walked from Place de la Concorde all the way back to the apartment on the Île de la Cité in the rain one day—savoring, savoring the place I so love. One year is always an interminable time to be away. TWO years is excruciating. 

It hurts. I know in the great scheme of things, in the midst of the horrifying events unfolding around the world, in the lives of people who haven’t been even as fortunate as I have, it matters not at all. But being exiled from my true home hurts.