Summer in Paris, not in 1819

the only reprieve from the Parisian summer

the jugs of chilled Riesling

sweating puddles onto the off-white tablecloth.

My mother and I stumbled home drunk through the humidity

heavier than the fondant she ordered that my father could not eat.

I was thirteen.

Catching my reflection on the glassy pool of a passing shop window I remember thinking

"This is what it means to be a grown up"

Sweat sticking the tuilles of my ballerina dress - tres chic- to my yet unshaken legs

I breathed in France and the sultry allure of the illusion of adulthood.

That was the summer before I went away.