ABSTRACT
It was a crisp, windy morning. Monia spread a plaid across her legs after her daughter helped her get seated on the veranda. She loved being outside, close to the bustle of the street. There was so much she could watch, the children on their way to school in pink and blue smocks, the mopeds put-putting around puddles of water, the passers-by greeting each other. Getting mail was a treat on what were usually long, uneventful days. She clasped the envelope the mailman handed her, overjoyed when she recognized the handwriting in bright blue ink, the address spelt in large, rounded letters that always smacked of optimism. Or was it just her imagination? Her long fingers eagerly fumbled with the envelope. Claire had sent a view of a café on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. The vintage black and white photo whisked her away, very far from the veranda and the noises of the dusty street. Her mind soared back in time to that visit in France so many years ago. The four of them sat chatting on a café terrace in the Latin Quarter.
