My first French mother.

When I go to Paris I am going to spend some time with my adorable cousin’s exboyfriend and mother. Will it be a small apartment covered in vines with chipped blue paint and pictures of her as a young woman standing next to a new bike that she was too scared to ride anywhere other than the country side? Will she have curly black hair and no makeup with large dark eyes that crinkle into a the warmest mental hug I have ever felt? Will she be able to understand me and my nervous studder? Will she serve us pan au chocolat and raspberry tea she got from the sweet gruff man who has a stand at the market? Will my feet hurt from the beautiful cobble stones that I spent the previous day floating over? Will the chair I slump into be soft from all the years her husband sat there next to the record player as she watered her tulips that live outside her livingroom window? Will she shake my hand or wrap her soft tan arms around me and kiss me two times on the cheek while bumping her glasses against mine? Will she smell like something so beautiful that I have never had the chance to smell before? Will she be small and thin?  Will she have spent the entire day cooking for our arrival? Will she be large and loving and anything like Julia Child?  Will I leave there that day finally having had learned how to be genuine and sweet and warm and no longer awkward and finally stop thinking “what next?” and learn to look people in the eye and ooze amorous enthusiasm without being loud and touchy like all the little girls I have schooled with for so long? Will she tell me stories about raising her children and “the old Paris”? Will she teach me how to pronounce my words deeply? Will she teach me new words to coo to the ones I miss?

I will take the metro to see her, and during holiday season I will send her and her son presents that are genuine and warm like the new me.

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