How We Are in Paris

When I take Mom to Paris
I make her show me where she met my dad
And she gets all bristly
And tells me that Paris wasn't all about Dad
That it wasn't all about finding a husband
That it actually had everything to do
With not finding a husband

...But if I'm really that curious
It was in a cemetery

And, No, she doesn't remember the details
But it was probably a dare gone wrong
When my mother was younger
She was always being dared to do things

Kiss a strange man from Toledo in a cemetery
Eat the green stuff the Parisian people put on the side of every plate back then
Get married one night just because there weren't any good parties to go to

As soon as she'd get bored
My mother would start saying
'Dare me!  Let's see what trouble I can get myself into'

When we are in Paris
My mother and I
We walk side by side like sisters
Both with sunglasses
Both with short dresses
Both with incredibly ridiculous shoes
That somehow, miraculously, survive the hard walk
On the cobblestone steps
Because you find all the best restaurants
On the cobblestone roads

We sit in cafes during the day
And my mother lists all the friends she can remember
Usually only dropping off one trait
Into my big blue coffee cup
Before moving onto another memory

Marie always had names painted on her fingernails
The names of whatever boys she was dating at the time
'Thank God that girl had two hands,' my mother would say

Nigel from London smoked cigarettes you could only get in London
And when he ran out he'd throw terrible temper tantrums
And spend entire nights dancing frantically
Trying to shake the withdrawal anxiety from his system

Monique could cross a room to slap somebody
In the time it would take you to blink
And when she slapped you
She'd leave a red mark that would stay there
For at least five days

At night, my mother and I put on beautiful gowns
And go out into the night
Looking for the smokiest bar we can find
So we can get lost in new identities
That we make up in taxis
On the way to wherever we end up

One night I'm Jenny Jarvis
An art history major from Columbia

And my mother is Sonya Sera
A jazz singer from Barcelona

That's the night I get back to our room at four am
And my mother doesn't get back at all

I see her at brunch the next day
And she tells me that it turns out Sonya Sera
Is a very wild woman

All this should shock me
But it doesn't

Growing up in the suburbs of Connecticut
My mother always seemed like a splotch of red
On a grey painting

Out of place and yet more interesting
Than anything around her

Over time, she dulled from bright red
To an off pink
To finally being just as grey as anything else around her

That was when I turned eighteen
And told her I was going to study abroad in Paris
The way she had
And did she have any advice

She handed me a book
A little leather-bound book
And said--Here, take this
This is all you need

I thought it was a book about Paris
But it was actually a book about...her

It was the diary she kept
The whole time she was living there
And also, the subsequent trips she took there
Before she settled down
And got married

Now, whenever I go to Paris
I take that diary with me
And I pretend my mother is walking
Right alongside me
Telling me scandalous stories
And reminiscing about all the fun she had

I pretend we go to cafes
And to bars
And walk down cobblestone streets
But really...

It's just me

Me and my very vivid imagination

Inevitably I come home from Paris
And stop by the house in Connecticut
To visit my mother
And tell her how my trip was

'Unfortunately,' I say, 'I haven't run into my future husband yet.'

She laughs and says--

'Remember, Paris isn't about finding a husband
It's about finding yourself.
That's the hard part.'

'Really,' I say, 'I thought the hard part
Would be keeping yourself
Once you find it.'

She thinks about that for a second
Nods, and then says--

'When are you going to Paris again?'

I tell her I'm going in the spring

'Maybe I'll join you this time,' she says
'And you can leave the diary at home this time'

I tell her I think that's a wonderful idea
The perfect Mother's Day gift

'Do you think Paris remembers me,' she asks

'Oh Mother,' I say, 'How could Paris ever forget?'