My daughter gets up, says “hello”, slowly settles on the sofa, then she stretches out her legs, and looks at her feet, as if preoccupied. As she arcs her long legs around the computer on the cushion, breathing heavily. I watch as her face, still soft from sleep slowly wakes savouring this time. Unaware of what I will tell her about the news of innocent people shot in a Paris concert hall last night. Aware there will be questions and perhaps tears, as she struggles to comprehend why someone would do such a thing. I hesitate because I want to preserve one more moment of her innocence, and because I don’t want to install the thought of it the next time we go to a concert. I hesitate because I don’t know what to say.
She gets up, her boxer shorts with clouds and rainbows on them, a gift from a French friend, requests a cookie and determines that she will finish designing the tree topper for the supermarket competition she has been working on. I determine that I will keep the TV off this morning. At least until I have worked out what to say.
While she checks on stars and chats about constellations. I think about the photo I took of pigeons flying into the air in a park in Paris. Think about a friend I last saw in that park that day in perhaps 2001 or 2 and have carelessly lost touch with. I hope he is alright.
I add my birth name to this post in hopes he might somehow see it and know I am thinking of him.
I have spent the morning checking on Parisian friends.