Song of Six Weeks
Time is such a fickle, funny thing. There are endless ways to count its passing with each holding a different to weight to the other.
Today marks six weeks that I've been in France, meaning I have exactly six weeks to go. I am halfway through my semester abroad, yet six weeks is nothing. There are forty-three days in between Tours and Birmingham, or a month and a half, or two flights. Five Sundays. God knows how many pain au chocolats.
It is an eternity and a blink. A glorious one.
I feel as though my life in France is an impressionist painting. With my nose so close to the canvas that little flecks of paint become freckles, it's a wondrous mess. There are so many great big blobs of color, endless pastels, thorny vines of shadow. In the midst, it's impossible to see the way each moment, light and dark, works together to form some spectacular image.
And the image is spectacular. There's the time I changed seats three times on the train to Tours and longed to jump on a plane home. The moment I tasted my first chausson au pommes and nearly melted. The smell of crotte on the street and the first time I realized dog mess fairly blankets the streets of Tours. The golden afternoon I watched a dance of falling leaves give their final bow into a pond.
All of it is imprinted on my soul now, destined to be whispered about in half-baked remembrances when I'm eighty (if I'm so lucky). They will be the stuff of family jokes and assumed pretentiousness when I can't help but pronounce the word croissant with a proper accent. They will be the spark of interest in eyes across a candlelit table as I describe climbing that cliff on Isle Raasay and the memories that weigh my heart down during the daily monotony of adult life.
Fickle time, make me your mistress.