As I sit and sip my absinthe—and pass my duck confit from one side of my plate to the other—from the all too familiar outdoor café, I see the tall dancing Turkey Oak trees in the distance. Many areas of the majestic Pyrénées Mountains are dappled with brilliant yellow patches. As Mr. Alexandre Dumas peers at me from his stony perch, I am aware that he realizes he has finally found what he was seeking. In those cold eyes I can see a tender and warm soul. The dark stone of the statue resembles his mixed heritage—not in mockery but in profound respect for the man. His rotund stature pulls all light toward him. He has been perched for far too long. The statue that has held him in memoriam has grown smaller for now the man has stepped down. I see him crossing the Garonne with arms open reaching to me as the oaks reach to the sun. His stony arms embrace me as he greets me with a cool kiss on my raised hand. He warms as his stony skin absorbs the sun. I can feel the warmth even though the embrace has loosened. Has he found inspiration to write yet another romantic novel…as the others have? Will I be mentioned by name or will I be a dutiful simile…as others have done? Would I remember tomorrow the images I see today?
Story © 2009 Kathleen Bjoran. Photo public domain