Finding Paris

Love Love Love

In the end I was not able to bring him with me when I went to my mother, Maria. I don’t think I can or even want to just yet. I want to deal with these circumstances on my own, as much as I can bear it.

The morning was bright and calm. I felt the breeze as I opened the door to the balcony, the sheer curtains brushing past my blue-striped pajamas. I saw the sun hiding behind the fat clouds, sharing a bit of its light through the god rays entering my room. I stretched and yawned and upon looking down, saw how the street looked so glum, devoid of any sound or movement whilst the sky above was in full mirth. In a way, it saddened me.

I went back to my room, set the phonograph up and took Edith Piaf’s record. I sat in my little reclining chair, closed my eyes and let the music take me back to that hot summer day in Paris, France at the Musée D’Orsay.

“Come, my darling and look at this,” father gushed over Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night. It was one of those moments between a father and a child, a serene moment of complete and utmost surrealism that was shared out of a beloved artist. It was the first painting of Mr. van Gogh that I had seen up close which nearly brought me to tears. I looked at my father, his face transcending every bit of emotion. It was every emotion altogether. I smiled at the sweet memory I allowed myself to remember. It became hard to even go back to those memories after he passed away and it was a long time when I last tried to remember the happy times we were all together.

I was brought back to my senses when I heard a loud noise outside the house. I rushed to my balcony and saw Victor on a red vintage Vespa waving at me from below.

“Hello there, old friend! Come on, let’s go somewhere!” He hollered loud enough for other people to wake up in their slumber.

“Shush, everyone is still sleeping. Where are we going,” I asked him. He must’ve noticed the empty streets and the dark houses as he immediately mouthed “oops” and covered his mouth.

“Anywhere! We got jolly Goodwin here to take us anywhere,” he said while patting his Vespa. I told him I’ll go down to let him in as it was hard to communicate the way we do with him outside the house and me upstairs.

“Goodwin,” I asked with a smirk.

”Yes, a good name for a Vespa, eh,” he said and continued, “are you not going to let me in?”

“Oh right. I was diverted because of your Goodwin.” I opened the gate and told him that I still have to clean up before we could go. I rushed back downstairs after I’ve finished packing my things and saw him looking at my father’s painting hung over the wall.

“You did this,” he asked nonchalantly, his stare fixed over the painting which father used to call, “Morgana Skipping Stones”. Most of his works were named after me. I was his muse after all.

“No, father did. That’s called “Morgana Skipping Stones”. He liked to name his works after me,” I said a smile forming as I remember a silly sketch he used to do that does not relate to or involve me in anyway, yet they all have “Morgana” in them.

“This is really good work, although, I don’t see any skipping stones here or you.” He scratched his head probably figuring out why it was named the way it was.

“There was never any skipping stones or me for that matter. As I said, he just liked to name his works after me, although every name had a story. Back when he was painting that, I went out of the house without their knowledge, went over the near river which was pretty calm at that time and skipped stones. I must’ve gone near the river too much and before I knew it, I fell. I went back to the house and stood behind my father and mother who were busy talking about the painting and hugged them from behind. I laughed when they turned their faces at me, shocked with my appearance. I told them my skipping stone story and that’s how it was named “Morgana Skipping Stones”.”