It had been a long week, made even longer by the antics of a handful of students and I was looking forward to getting home Friday afternoon, but it was evening when I got home Friday night. William was mowing the grass, Beth was working in the yard weeding, and I felt guilty for not wanting to jump in and help. But, not guilty enough to jump in and help. Besides, I figured I’d get busy on Saturday and do some chores, like the gutters – which are full of maple, elm, and other tree seeds.
Instead, I took Olivia to the French Market this morning and got momma some flowers for Mother’s Day like I do every year. Olivia picked them and I paid for them. We wandered down the stalls and I was back in Paris, if only in my mind. We stopped at a produce vendor and I added rhubarb, asparagus, and peaches. There were other stops to look, to think, Olivia wasn’t caught up in the memory, I was. Someday, I’ll take her to Paris and hopefully, she’ll get to understand what it is like to wander a Parisian street market while the world stands still.
Friday night Olivia had been searching for a book – Harry Potter #5 (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix) and had come across a cache of letters I had written Beth, years ago. She looked at me and said, “You wrote mom letters?” almost with her nose curled up and I explained, or tried to.. she looked at me and lost interest. But, I didn’t. The letters she found were written from Paris and I remembered the trip. It was ’85 and I was visiting dad and Julie. Both of us – Beth and I – were finished with college that summer; she had graduated and I still had a summer session to finish my degree and I was spending a two week vacation with dad who was living and working in Paris. I skimmed the letters – written twenty-seven years ago – and memories came back in a flood. Oh, how I’d love to go back.
But, I am here. William is off at a Fly Fishing merit badge clinic with the Boy Scouts, Olivia has a softball game in a couple of hours, and tomorrow is Mother’s Day. I have chores, grading, and many other things to cram into the two weekend days. Instead, I find myself sipping a café crème, nibbling a croissant, reading the paper, listening to music, and watching people in a Parisian café. Making the Days Count, one day a time, even one daydream at a time.
What are your daydreams, where do they take you?