French la Vie

As the years faded away, we came together once more, seemingly untouched by the passage of time that had separated us beyond our imagination. This reunion felt like we indulged in a deep dive of delectable sweetness, a delightful blend of flavors like my friend's dessert after our lunch in Cassis: A perfect Pavolova full of sweetness, sun-kissed strawberries, and layers of textured goodness.

In that long-awaited reunion, we reconnected effortlessly, despite the circumstances that had kept us apart. Our laughter from shared stories gave way to catching up on our lives and the many paths we had taken since our last encounter. My heart had a renewed sense of gratitude for the gift of my friend's presence. Life's complexities dissipated in that gathering, and I was grateful to be together again.

Time may have etched lines on our faces, but our connection remained strong, unaltered by the years that had passed. As we sat there, surrounded by the hum of conversation, I was struck by the wonder of friendship and the enduring bonds it forged.

Ah, the sweet memories of our shared past. It was over thirty years ago when we first met. Our firstborn children were merely five months old at that time. When I first saw Frances from a distance, I could tell she wasn't French. There she was, in the park, on the grass without a blanket, blowing bubbles for her baby. Her tender child play painted a vivid picture of how things were not done like this in France back then, and I was determined to meet a kindred spirit. I pushed Chelsea's stroller towards her, and when I came closer, I burst into tears when I heard her cooing in English to her baby daughter; I hadn't an English-speaking friend when I first moved to Marseille. Her cooing set my feet dancing. 

Frances was English, married to a Frenchman, and spoke French perfectly; I was sure she was Godsent to me. That day I felt the yellow brick road under my feet. France felt less intimidating with her companionship.