Ernest Hemingway said, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you…
Now we were not men, nor living in Paris, but my mother never shied us away from a little editing.
Our “Paris” changed from week to week depending on the books we read. We were lucky enough to have library cards, but mostly we were lucky to have each other, and that was always more than enough.
I suppose it was beside her in my twin size bed that I first heard her say, “Isn’t it so me?” I looked at her, her eyes twinkling in some distant light. I knew she was no longer on Van Dyke Road. She was in the book. She was not reading the words, but among them. As one who never wanted to be left behind, I knew I better grab hold of her, a hand, a skirt, anything near her, a participle dangling…as she danced among the paragraphs.
Oh, how we traveled. In clothes we didn’t own. In cities we never walked. In feelings that we knew as sure as the front of our hands. Hands that held the words that carried us, luckless as some may have seen — only viewing the backs, but even tucked under blankets, dreaming before dreams, we stood as tall as any tale could be.
You might think I am lucky to visit Paris now.. And I will agree. But it’s not new, it’s only because, just as Hemingway said, the luck stayed with me all these years. I was taught to keep dreaming, to keep editing, when everyone else said no, when some said only maybe, when other didn’t even bother to respond, my home grown mothered luck said, “Oh, yes, baby girl, you ARE lucky enough! This IS your Paris!”
