this is it. your last day.
the last gathering in the kitchen.
the last card game played on the ground.
the last apéro is brought out. saucisson.
the last lunch. spaghetti.
the last salad. roquette/arugula. tomates/tomatos. mustard/moutarde.
the last bottle of wine.
the last walk.
definitely not the last silly moment.
you choose an african restaurant for the last dinner.
it will serve as a narrative hook to your next project. hint, there is some foreshadowing going on.
the last laughs.
the last hugs.
the last bear hugs.
the last walk back.
and oddly enough, you don’t cry.
it might have to do with the fact that you don’t have time to cry. because once you arrive in taiwan tomorrow there is your favorite londoner waiting for you in a hostel.
but what you think the real reason for not crying is that france has become a part of you. that it is impossible for you to miss it.
how can you miss something if you always feel as if it is still next to you, around you, in front of you, behind of you, inside of you?
just look at french grammar:
la france me manque. “i miss france” is the translation but it literally says france is missing from me.
but it isn’t. not on that day. not today. not ever.