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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2171440
Remembrances in a cafe
I smell gingerbread
every time
she wanders into my thoughts.
That old lady,
who sat
every Tuesday morning
at the table behind me
in the coffee shop.
With her gingerbread scone
and cappuccino.
Bedecked in decades old
furs and costume jewelry,
putting on all the airs
of high society.
She’d talk to me occasionally,
more so during the winter months
when she seemed to be
I’d listen as
she’d tell stories
of her youth
living in France.
She’d recount her days as a student of dance
in Paris while her eyes glazed with memories.
She’d tell of a lover she once had in Nantes,
while absently spinning an old ring on her finger
adding with a giggle and a blush
how they had once skinny-dipped
under the French full moon
in the Lac de Grand Lieu.
And she would sigh and nibble
on her scone
as she recalled spending weeks
riding her bicycle
throughout the French countryside.
I remember that far-off look she’d get
sometimes slipping into French as she spoke
without realizing it.
She’s gone now
but I still smell the gingerbread.

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