I can count the times we’ve been away together without work being involved on one hand. And leave a few digits untroubled by the factoring.
I grew up listening to stories of my mother’s travels throughout Europe. She was, and still is, the most adventurous spirit I know. Mum is a tiny woman, most likely to be found at midnight in the woods near the chicken coop in rubber boots, a nightie and pearls, gazing up at the stars.
It was love at first sight. For a year we inhabited one another, left marks. A handprint in wet cement, a scar on a palm.
Selfish lovers, we took what we needed. Paris got my heart, and I got guts.