The weather said "occasional thunderstorms," so I checked the sky to the west, which was clear. When I stepped outside, though, it was apparent that the wind was blowing from the south and then the north and every which direction. In the park where I lay in the grass watching the ultimate frisbee game, the fat drops of rain began to fall so loudly into the maple tree that I looked around for the horse I thought must be nearby. I took refuge under the tree, feeling only a few of the drops, as the frisbee game continued and the softball diamond turned dark with water. Something gold glinted in the grass and I picked it up: a souvenir bookmark from San Fransisco, its heart-shaped charm slightly damaged as if it had been stepped on. I ceremonially placed it, standing upright, into a small hollow in the tree, heart facing out.
A souvenir is, in French, a memory. One of the most beautiful things I have heard is someone, speaking French, talking of souvenirs. When my head adds in the English layer, it seems so much more concrete than the English: a memory you can hold in your hands. "Je me souviens..."
A souvenir is, in French, a memory. One of the most beautiful things I have heard is someone, speaking French, talking of souvenirs. When my head adds in the English layer, it seems so much more concrete than the English: a memory you can hold in your hands. "Je me souviens..."
2 comments:
je me souviens de tellement de choses... et puis en meme temps j'ai oublié tellement de choses. Il y a des fois quand je ne sais plus de ce que je me souviens et de ce que j'ai oublié. Il ya des fois quand je ne crois plus en ce que je me souviens parce que mes souvenirs ne peuvent pas exister dans le meme monde que le present.
you know... it's the same in spanish "un recuerdo" -- but i never thought about it till now. thanks. remind me to tell you about stairway to heaven and the memory/souvenir...
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