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Illustration by Alex Siklos
Three years ago, after my wife died, I decided to go to Paris to wrap up my grief and, perhaps, move on.
Why Paris? We had gone to Paris early in our 34 years together. Loving to travel and plan, my wife had picked out a small hotel on l’île Saint-Louis, an island in the Seine. Arriving there on a drizzling December night, we took a tiny room on the top floor overlooking the roofs of Paris. We snuggled under covers listening to the rain. The night was long and the room cold. And so romantic!
At first a novelty, Paris became an old friend. For a while, it was easy and relatively inexpensive to hop on a six-hour jet from Halifax direct to Paris for an extra-long weekend.
Over many a coffee and croissant in cafes and baguettes in the parks, we talked a lot with care to listen to each other — to understand what a frown or a smile meant. A quoi pense tu? she would ask looking at me with her natural frown. Sometimes as I blathered on, she would sit regarding me with chin on hand. Who is this man? I tried to open myself up to her. Now I wander around continually questioning myself: Was I good enough for her? Was I too selfish, self-centered? Did I fail her in any way? Why is she gone?
We tried to walk as many bridges over the Seine as we could, once under them on a bateau mouche riverboat. When we cycled, I tried breathlessly to keep up with her. Through traffic and pedestrians, we rode inside the congested Boulevard Périphérique: her a fearless, joyful urban warrior, with me, quite fearful, in tow. We stopped for fondue at an outdoor café near the Flame of Liberty memorial for Diana, Princess of Wales.
My wife delighted in the lush gardens of Paris, we paused often in them for us to lunch on a baguette sandwich or a quiche, with a paper bag to conceal our wine. On another of our visits, she discovered the Orchid House which delighted her to learn how to fill our home with colourful blooming orchids. Horticulturally challenged, I gave away all her orchids except one. But bless its roots, it grows a flower for me still.
On one trip she paused by a kiosk outside the Louvre, and selected a long dark red souvenir scarf with gold highlights of Paris to wrap around her black coat. That wrap hangs in my closet, still holding the scent of the perfume she wore in those days. I see it every time I slide the closet door open.
One bright day, we went to the top of Tour Montparnasse. The view from the skyscraper’s rooftop took my breath away. I had a touch of vertigo 210 metres in the sky. She took my hand, and, safe together, we looked “down on this timeless town.” During that fearful Y2K night, nothing spoiled the Eiffel Tower’s lighting up as we and Paris welcomed the new millennium. We had to hold each other up as we waded through a sea of empty magnums of Champagne in the Place du Trocadéro.
Over time we by-passed the tourist stuff to explore other parts of Paris. We didn’t dance around like the stars in Funny Face who were in Paris for the first time and falling in love. We were in love, secure in each other, anchored, taking Paris on, the pair us, enjoying it in depth and breadth.
The photos we took help me sense her presence in Paris and keep my memories from fading. How young we looked! I didn’t see her growing old, though her last picture shows off her silver hair and few wrinkles.
I’m tired of all the emptiness around me. I remember just holding her hand even when we didn’t have anything to say. But now my life is full of silence without her. On my last trip, I watched the couples wandering around the first arrondissement paired up and eating, drinking, walking, laughing. Where was my love?
This was the last night of my trip. I was trying to come to terms with the loss I felt, the hole in my being. I was walking alone, yes, but I was also comforted by memories of her.
Why, oh why do I love Paris? Because my love is there.
Michael Herrick lives in Halifax.
