17 October 1999

When will the lavender come?

On this last saturday night in Hotel Paul in Aix en Provence, early, 9 p.m. You should see the view from this window. I have walked all day, mostly on the outskirts of the square, Cours Mirabeau. Last night when I got back to the hotel, not having eaten all day, I had a picnic on my bedspread from the morning’s market–strawberries, yogurt, cheese. Then I began laughing, again. Over what now? Almonds come to mind, but why would I be laughing at almonds? I’m losing my memory capacity, from constant stimulation I’ve lost distinction.

But tonight, I passed by my husband’s soul once again, with that dim light streaming through holes for frescoes. I did not enter again. Please understand. There is a morose moodiness, an edge to my day today. A heaviness that breeds in fruit stands, like the flies clinging for sweetness but finding the best spots are the bruised, mushy innards seeping out.

I feel as though I may never make it home with the sweet bruise of indecision circling around this empty chair in the middle of a field of soon-to-be lavender.


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