In the borrowed flashbacks of my life, I will be a wayward girl running to her exasperated father on Parisian streets. With an arid expression he will catch me, strong hands in scented pits. On delicate stonework he will spin, delighted to see his daughter.
“D'où vous cachiez-vous?”
“Papa, qui est le plus grand pilote?”
“Vous, mon chéri.”
“Encore. Plus fort.”
“VOUS! Mon et seulement. Je t'aime.”
“Je t'aime, mon père.”
Later, we pass a frisbee in Bois de Boulogne and remember mother.