Photography and Text by Corey Amaro
….Story continued from yesterday's post……
With notebooks in hand the band of six climbed the front steps and went into their Great Uncle's home.
I was the last one to enter, right behind my soon to be French Husband. I held his hand as we walked passed the entrance, through the living room, barely pausing in the dining room, walked down the hallway, where I glanced into the library as he lead me up the three flights of stairs to the attic. French Husband opened the creaky attic door, walked over to the window, opened it, then pushed open the shutters. The light of the day filled the attic space… showing us what was hidden: Cardboard boxes marked "miscellaneous", stacks of books not worthy to live in the library, simple wooden closets containing out of season clothing, with bits and pieces of things that had nowhere else to go, yet must have held meaning? Otherwise why would his Great Uncle have kept such things? I looked around the attic noting that nothing compared to what we had passed up along the way.
French Husband lived in Paris in a studio. His furnishings were
minimal: A bed, a set of shelves and a table for two. My small apartment
in San Francisco had not much more than his had. I had come
over from the States to meet his family since only his mother would be
able to come to our wedding in California.
I knew that when I returned to California to prepare for our wedding,
that I would set up a money tree instead of registering at the local
department store that I had dreamed about doing since a child. I would not be able to transport more than my two
suitcases could hold. Standing in the attic, the thought of French
Husband's few belongings, and about me giving away my few possessions
before coming to live in France crossed my mind several times over.
Desperately, holding back my desire to run downstairs and ripe every ticket I could put my hands on to, I asked French Husband was there something he was looking for? Was there a reason why we were in the attic, and not downstairs? Without looking at me he sat down by some boxes and simply said, "No. I came to the attic because I do not want anything. I do not like this sort of thing. I am only here because my cousin asked us to come."
I watched him aimlessly open a box, take a few things out. The thought of begging him to run downstairs, to collect a
few things for our soon to be home in Paris came to a halt; His misery made me feel uncomfortable to do so. I sat down beside him, watching the dust run from where I plopped down, looked into a box containing old 1950s Match magazines, wondering what I could do to make French Husband feel better….for fifty nine seconds….
before I asked him if it bothered him if I went downstairs to take a peek.
Downstairs the other five cousins were having a field day, their notebooks filled with numbers and descriptions. Trying to stay out of the way, I stood in the hallway with open mouth wonder! From where I stood I could see the library with its mahogany floor to ceiling bibliotheque filled with leather bond books with gilded titles. Oil paintings of the seaside, boats, and portraits in massive gilded wooden frames. A crystal chandelier dripping with rock crystals, a desk the size of my bedroom. I opened a linen closet in the hallway, monogrammed linens were neatly stacked, tied with pale blue ribbons separating the sets of napkins from one another. I put my hand to my mouth screaming silently into it.
Just as I was about to faint with pleasure, French Husband's sister came into the hallway turning the page in her notebook, ready to attack the kitchen with a clean slate. In a manner not to attract attention I closed the closet door with my foot, inconspicuously looking at my fingernails.
To be continued….
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