When it’s not perfect in Paris.

The good, the bad, and the rainy.

Paris isn’t always great.

It has rained three times a day for months. 

And I can’t make it poetic all the time.

Because sometimes it’s just cold and wet.

When it doesn’t smell like piss, it smells like smoke.

Aphids ate my geranium blooms. I don’t even want to get into that metaphor.

I heard you need to spray geraniums with soapy water. There are still no blooms but there are suds when it rains.

It’ll have to do.

My rainbow bubble blooms.

I think my hair is fine, but my broom tells me it’s getting finer all the time.

I get overwhelmed by the number of photos I take. Like my photo reel is turning into a very long to-do list.

What-to-do-what-to-do-what-to-do.

Video calls are good but not that good. My niece said yesterday “the connection is down.” She’s six and she’s right.

I freak out about money. How to make it, save it, mend it. 

So much to see and do. So much to pay for.

I have to breathe deep to find the strength. To reply to the demons with a quiet, “Yes, I will make it here, despite… and with spite if I must… also stop talking now.”

The French language continues to distance. When will I turn on the TV and understand?

I think I’d understand the same if it were on Mute, especially with dubbed-over American detective shows: The body, the evidence, the blue light, the lab, the reveal, the psyche out, the wrap up, the credits. 

I often feel mute when I walk around the city. Silence pierced by sirens.

I jump a lot from sounds in my walls. The invisible fleet scratching along the floorboards.

But then he walks in, looks at me and says, “You love me still?”

And I look at him and say, “When did you learn the word ‘Still’?”

He’s learning. I’m learning. We’re getting there.

But for today we are here. We open a bottle of wine and cheer another day.

May we be so lucky to do it all again tomorrow.

The good, the bad and the rainy.