French Dragons (and coffee)

Like all of us, I think about Mike a lot. Lately, missing Mike has taken on a distinctly French hue. Right now, I am on holiday with my family (3 yr old Ryan, 1 yr old Emilie & their papa) in the south of France; in September, we are miving to a little town in France, near the Swiss border, where we will live for the next few years.

Every day, I am nicely confronted with things I know Mike would like about France: the intricate, relatively ancient architecture of old village churches; the narrow, winding cobblestone streets leading up to chateaux that(according to Ryan) house princesses and, more importantly, dragons; and the pleasure of incredibly good coffee (which tastes all the more better since it's called cafe).

I almost don't know where to start with how much I miss Mike here. I miss the way that I imagine it would be to have him & Sarah & the kids here, with our kids, racing up the cobblestone streets to try to find the princess (or better yet; the dragon). I wish he were sitting across from us at the cafe, having.... cafe (his hand on top of his mug, of course, to keep it warm a little longer). Or leading the kids on a jaunt across the street, in his own unique version of speaking French ("crossez-le!").

A few months before Mike died, we talked about the idea of him & Sarah going to Paris for a few days. We (my husband Ali & I) have a tiny apartment there: Mike really wanted to go with Sarah, and we really wanted that to happen. It never did, for reasons which were as they were. But there was something beautiful about the dream of it, the gorgeous idea of Mike & Sarah having a few precious days away in the country they had spent such perfect time together.

Now, as I wander along the cobblestone streets, in search of dragons & princesses (and definitely coffee), I hope very much that the future holds French holidays together with Sarah & Lucas & Emily here with our Emilie & Ryan: it feels so important to have our kids know each other, and to somehow have adventures together, in France, in Canada, or wherever we may be.

I'm not sure how to explain (and here I don't even feel like I need to) the sense of deeply missing Mike, wishing he was here to share moments and days and parts of life with, and yet still feeling like he is in some way still very much a part of all of these bits and pieces, and the greater whole.

As every day, I miss you, P.