A Paris golden shovel
— after Alex Dimitrov’s “Someone In Paris France Is Thinking Of You”
it’s summer, & I’m ready to become someone new. it’s like this
every year: in middle school, I find my bravery in Montana. I write a poem
about silver linings on the PCT. it is
in Madrid I realize I am waiting for life to start happening
to me, in Daniel & Mary’s house in New Jersey I fix it. in
Siena I learn to slow down and appreciate what expands in front of me. this year, it’s Paris
that’s instructing me how to live. France
so far has taught me the power of showing my humanity. a place where
people have gathered for centuries, a place that shows I care. and I know it’s
not how we live anymore, but I care about you and this and here. it’s raining,
fat drops roll down windows on the bus. the sky opens at Omaha Beach and
I cry for brothers buried together & a German’s view of bloodshed and infinite sea. we’re
stuck in this web of humanness. of war & death & devotion & love. all
part of who we are. everywhere in Paris, you can find examples of someone so
constant in creating a life meaningful to them. I want to be drunk
and in awe with the world, moved by humanity to create something that
lasts far after I am gone. it’s
Paris, France, & I am young & still don’t know much, but I know it’s impossible
to feel disconnected from this place if I put in some effort. because I love the metro to
class where I pass through a thousand lives I’ll never meet again. I keep
ticket stubs, postcards, memories in my heart: a
park bench, 1/2 a croissant, prayer candles I’ll never know reasons behind. we have secret
selves we show the world, but Paris, France asks me to be brave enough to be true. every
day, I’m met with couples dancing along the Seine, books stained by rings of morning
coffee. I call this city City of Light, because it illuminates the
brightest parts of us: linked arms & laughter. I ask that we not be waiters
for life to happen to us. I guess what I’m trying to say
is this city teaches the vulnerable power of caring for something deeply. that, & bonjour
instead of bonsoir will mark you as “tourist.” I find myself in the sound of trumpets and
silence of a walk around the block. every
day brings connections golden like morning,
and yeah, maybe I
am romanticizing this city like every other person. but the act of sharing a drink,
or laughter, a glance and kind words—it’s no Monet’s garden, but maybe this begins my
story: of being brave enough to show people I care—about everything. the coffee
we share in the morning, the poems I write, how I make people feel, what I observe. with
practice, maybe my life can turn like a mosaic of stained glass and a
collection of markers proving I tried my best. it may seem like it’s a kind
act to tread lightly through life. but I’m reminded with lessons of
connecting with the world and each other. this is not the American
ideal of striving for good & better & best. instead, it’s delight mixed with sadness,
hope, fear, the ability of letting light & people into your life. they’ve
built this city on connection, and I want to say that how I started
my life too. beginning with something simple. it doesn’t always require saying
something brave. no I’ll smile and say, I took it all, in Paris, France. it started with hello.