The Woman of Weeping Willow

ch 3 ~

Trudging along the crumbled road to my cottage, the gravel crunching against my worn leather boots, if you can call them that, I can feel the village words crawling onto my skin. Some saying that i pay a lot of attention to the detail of nature, others that i look as though i just rose from the dead, i certainly feel like it. The only thing I can think of to make my ability to endure this thesaurus of words being hauled at me is a croque monsieur. For some reason i cannot yet fathom, the perfect grilled cheese seems to boost my serotonin, so, in the true french spirit of my quaint little village, i stop at madame sicily's for one.

Madame Sicily. Most likely the only person within a mile radius that can stand me.

Fitting, considering she's distant family. Before I moved, my mother told me of a family from afar, supposedly disowned by their parents, their names the 'monet's'. So, naturally, when I moved I seeked Sicily Monet, my aunt, and we became closer than I could have imagined.

" Lani, just in time. I had a feeling you'd venir so there's a croque monsieur in the press."

"Auntie, you know me better than I know myself. " With a flick of a wrist my toastie was out of the press and in my hand, whilst making my way out the door. They say time flies when you're having fun but i think time skips around the people you care for. Those who you cherish, and in return, cherish you. 

I enjoy the little things in life, such as the newspaper wrapped sandwich in my hand, held neatly together by a thread of twine. France, as i've known it, has always been big on food; quality over quantity and presentation being a goal to strive for as such. No matter how long you live here, whether it be the rest of your life or a couple dozen years, i don't think anyone can ever get used to it. You know, that thought of calibre care most other countries tend to miss.