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“If I see anything vital around me, it is precisely that spirit of adventure, which seems indestructible and is akin to curiosity.”
Dear Simone.
My first letter to you must be a celebratory justification. It was your birthdate, and I honored you in an orange chemise with purple lipstick and a bouquet of yellow flowers. It had been raining for days. Great grey silks of the sky seduced and a fine mist that made the leaves heavy with droplets. The patter at my window woke me up each night and I didn’t mind because I knew it would not be forever.
One. Two. Three: days blue and blurry. Every morning in the wet darkness, I walked in my red raincoat and black rubber boots to the cafe close to the ocean. I’d ordered a coffee and a croissant sat on the wet logs and watched the tide move back and forth. A pendulum pronounced the cycles and spat up cracked crab skeletons.
On your birth date, I woke up just as early, walked in the dreary puddle pathways to the cafe, and ordered my usual. I sat in the rain, ate my soggy French pastry, and licked my fingers afterward. I relish my tongue against my skin. Such sensations remind me of the impartiality of the world. Then I walked home and went to babysit the twins. We three played in a wet playground and they asked for chocolate croissants and I agreed, of course.
It’s your birthday, after all.
When I got home, it was dark outside and I changed from my wet clothes to the orange chemise - it’s transparent lace and I wear a chocolate brown bralette that suits my skin tone beneath it. I had a bottle of Portuguese wine; I intended to have a glass, though I drank the whole thing! I set out those flowers I purchased from a little shop selling ceramics and candles.
You see, Simone, I felt exquisite being with you this way on February 4th because I am 34, the same age you were when you passed.
I’ve been telling all those I greet that it is My Year Of Simone Weil.
Photo source.
