I’m writing you from your terre I’ve never seen. La place before une cathédrale we’ll enter to light candles, these we’re holding out here in the dark beneath a video-bright starry night, the only clear spot. Not true, la place too has space, plenty, in spite of the crowd, none with us except your daughter there playing across the stones with children she’s gathered on the strength of her three-tongued voice. She knows the candles are loss and plays into the night bobbing away from you and back, dipping into shouted laughs, returning with little songs, the promise of kids leaping about a shepherd. April begins.
box for Stéphanie