Paris. I was with my sister, Susan, at the Eiffel Tower. We had just ended a two week adventure in the Perigord in southern France in which Susan and her riding students combed the trails of the countryside on horseback. It was about 10:30 at night. We were booked in a hotel near Charles de Gaule airport for an easy exit for Montreal the next morning. We had just taken a taxi from the Hotel to come here to execute a mission for my son Damon, a very important mission, one that would hold meaning for generations to come.
Our task this night stemmed from the wishes of Damon's Dad, Don. Damon had tragically drowned that summer of 2011 at his father's wedding. Now, months later, Don was deciding where Damon's ashes should be placed and he felt it appropriate that some of Damon should stay in France, in a small hamlet called 'Boinville', where Damn had lived for three years as a teenager, . Don had asked our neighbors there, Daniel and Martine, if they wouldn't mind scattering his ashes in the forest across from our house.
As it turned out, I was going to France, so I could bring the ashes to them in person. We planned to meet at the Paris train station, Monparnasse. As fate would have it, meet we did, but we were so excitedly immersed in conversation that I totally forgot to give them that little bag. Alas, I carried it with me for the next two weeks.
Now, our trip over, settled in the hotel waiting for the morning to head home, I still had Damon with me. He was in France now where this part of him was to stay. It didn't make any sense for me to take him back home. Susan and I decided to take a taxi to the Eiffel Tower and somehow put Damon to rest there under a tree. It seemed the right thing to do. Damon had been there so often in his short life, with his family, his friends and his wife. It was there that he had asked her to marry him. Yes, that's where he should be.
So, there we were, standing under the Eiffel Tower. It was very tall and shining from top to bottom with bright gold lights. People were going in every direction underneath it with security guards scattered amongst them. The Taxi was waiting by the curb with the engine running. Although the Tower was lit up, the gardens around it were not. We furtively glanced around. The coast seemed to be clear of any guard so we hopped over the fence, jumped into the garden and made a dash for the first tree. I had put a coffee stir stick from the hotel room in my pocket. It was at this moment that I knelt down beside the trunk of the tree and reached into my coat to get it and began scratching feverishly at the sandy soil. The stick broke. I used what was left of it to dig a hole deep enough to fulfill its purpose. I tremorously took the zip lock bag from my pocket and, with unsure hands, opened it and poured in the ashes. I covered it up quickly. Mission accomplished! Damon would be there forever. Anyone who was to come in the future to the Eiffel Tower, would know Damon was with them, in the soil, in that tree.
Damon being there, in Paris, under the Eiffel Tower, seemed to move to tears his best friend, Guillaume, whom he had met while going to school in Boinville and who now works in Paris. Guillaume wrote to me upon learning of this mission and said, "Thank you, Mom, Thank you. Paris was never so beautiful as since this night." Well, perhaps Paris may be more beautiful, too, for all who visit the Eiffel Tower and know of our little secret. I hope Damon's children will find solace to know he is there with them when they gaze up at that big Tower and I hope their children, one day, will too.
I climbed back into the taxi with my sister with a mysterious feeling of satisfaction. As we drove away into the dizzying traffic, I looked through the back window of the cab at that disappearing tree and whispered to myself, "Au revoir, Damon."
