I like that the word story in French is histoire. Because it is my story, my history. I am a part of it all. And it’s not about going back, but building on it, daily. 

You wouldn’t know it to see my home today, but I came to France with almost nothing. The walls are now filled with paintings of my family, both American and French. I am surrounded by new books that I’ve read. New books that I’ve written. The small suitcase of clothes with which I arrived now fills three closets. My story, mon histoire, continues. 

When I feel sad, it’s often because I think I’m in an ending. That’s when I have to tell myself that I’m simply in my story. I look at the painting of my grandfather and know those fields get replanted every year. I still feel the breeze of my mother’s twirling dress. The bursting of youth from the children at sea’s shore. And from my story, my history, I keep beginning. We all do. Planting. Twirling. Dreaming. Loving, still and again, the story continues.