The boulangerie is bustling.
It’s early morning. Paris. September 2024.
Beautiful baguettes — dark, light, tradition, demi — poke like rustic flower stems from wicker baskets behind the counter.
I order a café au lait.
“Sur place?” the vendeuse asks.
“Oui, s’il vous plaît.” I answer.
I know the drill by now. And she knows me. But the first time I came in, the question flustered me...
Seafoam rushes between my five toes. Sand settles, heavy, on my prosthetic foot.
When I swing my thigh to kick it off, it takes so much force that — for just one instant — it feels like it’s my real foot out there, flinging sand into the tide.
Later, I will dismantle my “beach leg,” as I’ve been taught by my prosthetist, Tim.
I’ll rinse it in a cascade of fresh water in the bathtub and watch the day’s residue erupt, volcano-like, from within the footshell.
A mixture of sand and shells and ocean -- seemingly pounds of it — will thunk into the tub like wet cement. And I’ll spend more time bent over, chasing it into lumps and scooping it up with paper towels, than I did in the actual waves.
But for now, I’m here. Wading.
Feeling, with wonder, my two feet in the water.
I had forgotten how much I love the beach...
I’ll start with the books.
Sounds simple, right? Get rid of the ones I’ve read and won’t read again. Sort through one bookshelf, then another, then another.
The problem is… books are like time machines.
You know how a song takes you back to the 10th grade dance? Well, the books on my shelves do that for me. Just touching their spines is like climbing into a DeLorean and flooring it to 88 miles per hour.
I land in a cornfield of memories.
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| (Photo courtesy of Midland Movies.) |
Each book is a survival lesson. Take Mile 6,660, for example. After an hour of sorting and shifting, I need a bulldozer to dig myself out.
(Oh, where is Michael J. Fox when I need him?)
But the future needs space to grow, right? So I try another tactic...
