I literally wrote this from nothing in two hours so I know it's sloppy, please feel free to be harsh in your reviews!
I sat in my studio in Maine, paintbrush in hand and painted a picture of you. It was a scene in my memory from the previous year when we had decided to throw our responsibilities to the wind and forget the fact that we were broke by traveling to France for a week. My mother and her family resided there and it was also where I was born and raised. I was desperate to introduce you to her. The plane had landed and my palms were sweaty. My mother had said that she would be in the airport waiting for us. You were my first love, and I was terribly nervous. You could tell because I always rubbed the back of my neck when I was anxious about something. I loved you for graciously showing no sign that you had noticed
though I'm sure that it must have been hard.
The plane landed and we waited for our luggage in the baggage terminal before heading for the room where friends and relatives were waiting. I spotted my mother right away. She had gained weight since the last time I had seen her, her frame had filled out considerably. She wore a yellow dress that must have been purchased for this special occasion for I had never seen my mother in a dress. Without hesitation she enfolded you in a hug and I felt all my worries dissolve. After depositing our luggage in a taxicab along with my mother she ordered us to go and enjoy ourselves.
We spent the afternoon strolling the Champs-Elysees hand in hand, you tried on silly hats and sipped Orangina. We stopped for lunch and you ordered croissant a la dinde, an herb-roasted turkey breast sandwich with blue cheese aeoli which you somehow managed to smear on your nose. We were seated outside next to a potted lemon tree, it's branches laden with fruit. Your auburn hair escaped from its loose bun, leaving tendrils to swirl gently in the breeze and settle on the nape of your neck. You were wearing the blouse I liked and it hung off of your shoulder as you ate, it's gauzy white material falling gracefully on your slender frame. A string of tiger's eye crystals adorned your neck.
The air was filled with the everyday sounds of French life but it was the sounds of people speaking in their native tongue, a language that was as familiar to me as English but for you it was a strange and fascinating thing. You constantly asked me to translate what was being said and I never grew tired of answering you.
Pigeons landed on the cobblestone square beside us as well as atop a fountain adorned with the statue of a young girl carrying a pitcher which burbled merrily, and begged for scraps. From the looks of it they had been getting what they asked for and then some. You tossed parts of your sandwich to them as they cooed their appreciation until the cafe maitre 'd came over to tell you to stop. After sharing a dessert of tarte tatin, an upside-down apple tart we started walking again.
I asked you if you would like to see something special.
We hailed a taxicab and I whispered to the driver where to take us. You giggled with anticipation the entire way. We stopped outside of the famed Notre Dame cathedral. You gasped in delight and proceeded to give me a wild kiss. The Hunchback of Notre Dame had been your favorite book since you were a little girl and I hadn't forgotten. Long after the cab had left you stood there just outside the entrance as people streamed past you in eager anticipation and simply admired this place that had only existed in your mind before in pictures. Its gothic stone walls seemed to hold so much mystery for you. Were you re-living your favorite story as you stood there?
I watched your rapt gaze with a feeling of amusement but I didn't dare interrupt you. Finally you turned to me and beamed one of your famous smiles. I couldn't help but smile back. I asked you if you wanted to go in and you hesitated before shaking your head. You must have not wanted to ruin whatever image you had held in your imagination for so long. I shook my head and wrapped my arm around your shoulder. By now the sun was beginning to set and the cathedral seemed to receive an otherwordly glow as the old stone building basked in the orange light. We hailed another taxicab back to Paris just in time to catch the lights strung over the Eiffel Tower blink and come to life. It was the perfect Parisian evening. We sat on a bench beside the monument and enjoyed our first evening together in Europe. Do you remember the dapper gentleman who played
the violin for us or the twinkling lights that sparkled on the Seine? Do you remember the sound of the boats that passed, their horns sounding mournfully into the night?
Finally realizing that we should be getting back to my mother's apartment we reluctantly let go of the moment and walked slowly down the Avenue El' see Reclus passing several cafes and bars both beginning to burst into life as the great city shifted from its daylife to its nightlife scene. A whole new crowd of people appeared on the streets talking and laughing merrily. A young couple that looked just like us passed by, the young woman had her head rested on her boyfriend's shoulder as they walked together. I smiled down at you and you did the same indicating you had seen them too.
We followed the natural bend in the street that took us into the Amile Pouvillion and then onto Rue saint-Dominique Street. It was now almost completely dark and a full moon shone overhead. A chill had formed in the air which smelled of freshly baked beignets and we ran the rest of the way to warm ourselves before arriving breathless and laughing on Rue' se' Dillot, my mother's street. She lived in a small three-room apartment near the top of an older complex. We climbed the rickety stairs and I pulled the key she always kept hidden from behind a loose brick and turned the lock. She was asleep and I went to her small kitchen to pour us two glasses of wine, peering in on my mother as I went. I returned and to my surprise, found you asleep on the small green sofa in the main room. My mind traveled back to when I was a child, how many times had I done the same thing leaving my mother with the tasking job of waking me up and helping me stumble back to bed. I smiled at your sleeping figure as you lay curled on your side still wearing those leather riding-boots you loved so much. Your expression was so serene, I wanted nothing more than to join you. I set your wine down beside you and drained my own before removing my jacket and shoes and squeezing next to you on the narrow piece of furniture and wrapping you in my arms. You didn't even stir as I placed my nose in your hair and smelled the sweet scent of your shampoo. God I loved you so much.
My paintbrush paused. What had gone so terribly wrong? The next morning we had gone out for breakfast and out of nowhere before anyone could react, a taxicab came flying around a corner and had collided into you as you crossed a street. I was only steps behind you as I had stopped to give directions to a tourist. I heard the horrible thud that steel makes when colliding with flesh and the screech of tires. Screams arose and everyone within earshot rushed to your side. You had been thrown nearly twenty feet from the site of impact. My heart beat wildly with dread as I shoved my way through the crowd to reach your prostrate and motionless form. I knelt and placed your head in my lap. Your eyelids flickered and then closed. Blood was coming from your head and dripping from your lips. I felt tears rush to my eyes and spring down my cheeks unchecked onto you, mixing with your blood. ''Appelar la police, appelar la police, s'il vous plait, quelqu'un, hate!'', I screamed as my voice cracked. ''Oui, Oui, je vais,'' a voice called out and I could hear the muted beeping sounds of buttons being pressed on a cell phone. The driver of the cab was jabbering away in a foreign language and although I couldn't understand him I knew that he was trying to apologize. I managed to give him a curt nod through my tears but no words would form.
I sat there and held you like that for what seemed like ages until the paramedics came to take you away. I begged to be allowed to ride with you in the ambulance but they refused. I had to take a separate taxi and I must have appeared to be crazy to the driver as I yanked the door open and threw a handful of bills onto his seat, my shirt covered in your blood, yelling at him to hurry to the hospital. The I spent the entire way doubled over on the seat sobbing. I could barely contain myself as we pulled up to the emergency room. I could see you being rushed through the double doors on a gurney, your neck in a brace. I wasn't allowed to see you and I heard nothing for the next two hours as I paced a thin spot in the waiting room's carpeted floor. The wait was maddening.
After the first half hour I had the presence of mind to call my mother from a nearby pay phone, I was incoherent but she managed to understand most of what I was saying and rushed down to meet me. When she arrived I collapsed into her arms and we wept together.
At long last a tall middle-aged man with a nose like a hawk entered the room dressed in a white jacket, holding a clipboard. ''M. Taylor?, he called out, est-il M. Taylor?'' When I heard my name I shot up quickly and the man walked over to me. His jacket lapel read Dr. Kingston. ''How is she?'', I asked in French. The doctor scanned his clipboard but didn't seem to be reading anything, ''M. Taylor je youd pense mieux de vous asseoir.'' Or, I'd think you'd better sit down. My heart sank and I fell back to my seat. The man took the one next to me and looked me straight in the eye. ''We tried everything we could but there is nothing we can do for her. Im terriblement desole.'' ''How long?'', I managed to squeak out. ''Quelqeus minutes, peut-etre 10 ou 15?'' ''Can I see her sil vous plait?'' The doctor nodded and stood, motioning for me to follow.
After a endlesswalk through 4 long hallways, we arrived at a room, number 1642. Dr. Kingston opened the door and nodded to the nurse beside the bed who stood and left. He then closed the door behind me, leaving me alone with you. I walked slowly to the bed, each step making my legs feel like blocks of wood. You lay on that bed still in your clothes, covered in blood. You were deathly pale and I could barely see you breathing. Your arm was hooked up to an IV bag which dripped steadily at an even pace. Drip, drop, drip, drop, drip, drop were the only sounds that could be heard. More tears slipped down my face as I lay beside you on that bed just as I had the night before. Your hair still smelled the same. I took your hand in my own and felt how cold it was to the touch. I brought it to my lips and kissed it gently. My body started to shake as I began to cry convulsively.
I prayed for you to open your eyes and look at me one last time. But it was not to be. I watched your breathing slow even further and I lay my head to your chest listening for your heartbeat. It sounded sluggish and reluctant to keep on going. Your body was slowly giving up on you. I pressed my body into yours, trying to give you some of my body heat to warm you. But it was all in vain. Three minutes later and you exhaled for the last time. It was then that the real grief took hold. I cupped your lifeless face in my hands and kissed you, I could feel the salty taste of my tears on your lips. ''I wasn't ready to let you go,'' I sobbed into your hair. I sat with you for several more minutes and wept until suddenly I felt an undescribable sense of rage overtake me. I stood and picked up the chair beside the bed, whipping it violently against the ugly yellow walls. ''I wasn't ready to let you go!'', I screamed. It didn't take long for an orderly to hear what was going on and summon help. It took two doctors and an orderly to drag me from the the room until I calmed down somewhat.
How many tears I have shed between that day and now are too numerous to count. My mind is in constant torment. I blamed myself for not being able to save her. That very weekend after the funeral I flew back home to Maine and holed up in my artist's studio to grieve. My studio is covered with drawings and pictures of you. It's been over a year and you're still all that I think about from the moment I wake up to the moment my head hits the pillow again at night. Will I ever be able to sleep at night again? Even my dreams are filled with thoughts of you.
My paintbrush again resumed its work on the easel. This was the only way I knew how to deal with the pain. A few minutes later when the finishing touches were completed I stood back and wiped the brush on a rag, feeling a sense of accomplishment. I could see your face again, it stared back at me from the painting, giving me that famous smile, sandwich in hand, blue cheese aeoli on your nose. The sky is blue. There is a fountain in the background along with the pigeons. You are wearing my favorite white blouse, and a tiger's eye necklace. Your beautiful auburn hair is being tousled in the breeze.
I smiled to myself and for a brief instant I felt at peace.
I took up the brush once more and in the lower right hand corner I wrote, ''To my love Margaret, I will never forget you.''
