Our Evening in Èze

Several hundred stairs later, my lungs have filed multiple formal complaints and are considering mutiny.

“Who looked at a cliff and thought, ‘Let’s put a village there!’?” I ask, bending forward with my hands on my knees. “And, more importantly, why did they add stairs?”

Pierre laughs, genuinely entertained. “You’re almost there.”

The Night on the Balcony

Muscle memory is the only thing that brought me back to the apartment and into my bedroom while the world zoomed by, fast around me, but my mind was frozen from sorrow. Counting the beat of my heart to match the steps of my feet is the only thing that prevented me from shattering into tears on the journey back. 

Notes of Him

Remembering him never begins in visions or sounds; it always begins with scents.