#theopenbar

I’m okay with letting go, and if my memory’s bad, it’s just as well. But there are these things I don’t now what to do with: memories of life in France together, for example. We were twenty when it happened; it was easy to make the move. We were children in love with losing and what did it matter, how far we were? The absence of a homeland didn’t seem to matter. We agreed it would be hard to miss suburbia, plots of overdeveloped land. And we didn’t think it would ever end—the love, is what I mean. The choosing to be together. And I thought, which now seems silly, that in choosing to live in France we were choosing one another forever. It didn’t seem the thing—it still doesn’t, when I’m being honest—that people in temporal love go do. Back then, we were interested only in what was essential, and we mimicked this even through language. L’herbe, we learned, l’air. Le soleil et la nourriture. Everything came with “the,” as if it was one kind, specifically, implying the element of choice.