Everyday Words Seem to Turn into Love Songs

Despite their assurances to the contrary they both fell asleep on the way home. I pulled into the drive, a car full of Target bags- things we wanted and things we needed, and sleeping boys. I turned the car off and let the radio play. It was La Vie en Rose, the Armstrong version and it carried me to Paris.

We passed the same trumpet player on the same corner every day. We sat in the grounds surrounding the Louvre and ate cheese and fruit with pieces of stale bread. We drank wine from the bottle. It never occurred to us that it might not be legal. We were naive, or maybe ignorant, or maybe there isn’t a difference. It didn’t matter. We ate and drank and it was lunch or it was breakfast and we were Americans in Paris and always the trumpet played and always we put too much money in the cap and felt that we were in a world apart, a world wear roses bloom.

I let them sleep in the car while I started to unload it. Two tired boys dreaming whatever it is that tired boys dream with a trumpet for a soundtrack. I filled my arms with bags and boxes and toys that could not be missed, and I carried them inside with my memories.

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