| |
When he was done writing and revising and slaving over his words, John called Emily and invited her out for dinner.
They sat under the awning at Le Café Livre, across from Tour Saint Jacques, eating outdoors. Even in September, the Paris evening was impossibly long and bright.
“Did you know we’re as far north here as the northern tip of Newfoundland?” John asked. “Ever seen Paris on a globe? We’re not that far from the Arctic Circle. Great Britain and Northern Europe would be a frozen waste except for the Gulf Stream. A gift straight from the New World to the Old.”
“Cool.” Tonight Emily was eating with relish. She was wearing a pink “I Love Paris” T-shirt with red rhinestones forming the Eiffel Tower.
When they finished eating, John took a piece of paper out of his wallet and unfolded it several times.
“Em, I took what you said last time to heart. And here’s my answer. It’s a poem I wrote for you.” Emily sat back, looking surprised.
“Ready?” John asked. Emily nodded.
“Okay, listen.” He was more nervous than he had been asking his first girl for a date.
“Let me not be closed to you,
for where I am closed, there
I am not true.
I tell you, ‘I love you.’
Simple.
I would go to the temple wall
and tango through tunnels
on my toes for you.
“If you say no,
then the inebriated, the broken
on the street
will look like what I feel inside.
When I walk toward you,
it is with my whole heart.”
John folded the poem back up. He held it in his hand, wishing and hoping. In the distance, he heard the pin-pon of a Paris siren. Sirens happened so much less often in Paris than in New York City.
“Can I have that?” Emily said.
When he handed over the paper, she unfolded it and read it again.
“Dad? My answer is yes.”
John grasped her tiny hand and squeezed gently.
“I don’t know where I’ll put you yet, but I’ll come up with something. Soon.”
Emily smiled at him.
“I love you, you little woodsprite,” he said.
