The poppies were there first.
Category Archives: France
There, church bells ringing as the sun sets over Grenoble.
The first time I saw her, I was sitting on Cotter’s lap—he had been my best friend for probably six years at that point—at a meeting I crashed after coming home early from France.
It was midnight again, France time, when I sat down for the turkey and mashed potatoes my family had waited to make.
So, in order to commemorate these tenth Gay Games, I have decided to pen my very own over-the-top, saccharinely sincere Pindaric ode. Let’s hope it’s not, well, terrible.
Danke, Louise. Obrigada, João. Merci, Jess. Gracias, Vera.
I am the fifth stranger here, and perhaps the strangest of them all. I am passing through this place. This will be my only night in the city, and then I will be gone.
In your last days in this little town, you will start to see things as you saw them in the first days.
I think when we look down on children it’s because we have momentarily, or perhaps chronically, forgotten that little kid inside earnestly whispering, “Don’t forget me. I’m still here.”
Wood and silver,
Vessel of the divine
And of acceptance