Something is not right.
Tucked between the warm scarves, new shoes, and coveted black beans in Ryan's suitcase was a bag of Bananagrams. At home, Bananagrams was a regular staple and we played everyday in Santa Cruz, breaking them out after a long day of work or taking them down the street to the brewery on Monday nights.
And the best part of this ritual was, I nearly always won.
I don't know if it's a result of not having spoken English regularly in the last four months, or if I just lost my streak, but I have lost every single game since Ryan's arrival.
What is this world coming to??
In conjunction with the mourning over the loss of my winning streak, we visited cimetière Père Lachaise one cold, blustery day last week. The grey skies of early January seemed to suck the life right out of everything, alive or otherwise. The granite tombs and mausoleums lining the narrow paths seemed unusually cold. Potted plants and bouquets of flowers lay shriveled and dying on the headstones, and the wind whistled through them to the tune of "a dark and stormy night". In the skeleton trees, ravens perched where leaves should have been.
The light was nearly gone by the time we found our way out of the labyrinth of the cemetery. If we had stayed even a moment longer, I think we might have seen Isadora Duncan or Jean Avril dancing on the graves.
