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The Girl Near The Window
Copyright 2016 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for my friend.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Paris: Not too long after the events of November 13, 2015.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Nothing yet
In the end, death comes for all of us.
That was on my mind as I sat in a cafe in Paris ... only a few days after the attacks across the city at the end of 2015.
As we traveled during a time of great political tension, I wondered if we would complete our trip and return home. Many unexpected destinies were possible, each one more undesirable than the last.
I would have greeted death as a friend, had we met that far away. That would have sounded kinda cool on my death certificate: Born in the United States, died in Paris, France. Whenever I see that on others’ headstones or death certificates, I feel intrigued and want to know more.
I thought about death as we took off from North America and flew into the night sky. As we passed over the North Atlantic Ocean I felt a not uncomfortable feeling: the remains of the Titanic were down there. I believe there is the possibility of living more than one life on this planet, and I believe I was on the Titanic, and went down with the ship. If something unusual happened and I found myself near, on or in the North Atlantic Ocean, it would be like returning to a type of home.
The flight was long and after a while uncomfortable. With insomnia, I could barely sleep. I kept snoozing and waking up, with odd troubling thoughts going through my head. Of course, the words one does not want to think about kept recurring: bombs, terrorists, crashes, explosives on planes, planes on explosives, hijacking, etc.
After a while some of the uneasiness passed.
And we were still on the plane.
I did a few things. Looked through a few things. Colored. Tried to sleep.
We were still on the plane.
I slept a bit. Finally.
Woke up. We were still on the plane.
I checked the map. We had barely reached the halfway mark.
I should have brought some type of work. More books. A bigger bag with more stuff to do. Slept more before leaving. Eaten more. Drank less. I had to pee often.
I fell asleep thinking of the “shoulds,” and then woke up and we were still on the plane and it was still dark outside.
Then I really fell asleep for a brief period.
When I woke up I saw that the sky had changed from deep dark midnight blue to deep purple with a hint of royal lavender.
I thought this part of the trip might go quickly.
But it did not. International travel goes slowly. Like the old world used to. The old world before smart phones and Internet and 140-word characters and everything needing to happen yesterday because we have forgotten how to enjoy our days.
The trip was something to enjoy, despite wartime. Why not?
After all, death comes for us all. Any time, anywhere. Why change anything? Just enjoy your life. I have a weird feeling that we are going to be asked a lot of questions after we die, including: why weren’t you braver? And I want to be able to say: I believe I was.
Aaaaand after all these philosophical thoughts we were still on the plane.
“Prepare for landing” finally came over the speakers.
And we were still on the plane.
And as it felt like we were finally about to reach the ground, I coached myself: don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it. But I did: what if something really unpleasant happened right this second, after all that waiting?
Well ... death comes for us all.
The plane reached the ground and we clapped.
Eventually, I got to the cafe, where I saw the girl near the bay window.
She was sitting there, like others had only a few days before, in a different part of the city.
She was sitting there with most likely a boyfriend.
They talked and laughed. Cried and smoked cigarettes. Talked some more. Smooched. Ate. Drank.
When I saw her crying, I wondered if she knew anyone who had been killed in the attacks. Then I felt stupid. The whole world was crying ... over the mass murders, and over many things.
And then I realized she looked like one of my most precious friends from childhood.
That was when I cried silently, doing my best to hide it. I remembered my friend, and our happy times together with our other friends. She was, and still is, one of the most beautiful human beings I know. I once heard, during a time when we lost touch, that she had some serious health problems. That still disturbed me, and I cried about that, as I sat in the cafe in Paris.
As I watched the girl in the window, and reflected on how she reminded me of my friend, I cried for everyone: for the more than 130 dead Parisians who were alive and enjoying their Friday night only a few days before; for the businesses compromised by the attacks; for everyone who has been brave enough to be emotional in a public venue as they work through their grief and PTSD; for the city of Paris; and also for those who claimed responsibility for the attacks -- there are millenniums of history and pain and betrayals and politics and religion behind these ongoing mass murders.
I felt weary and upset and tired and sad, and wished all the war and disagreements and hatred would leave the planet.
Maybe in a different universe.
The girl in the window continued to live her life, kissing her boyfriend, smoking, smiling through her tears.
I remembered my lovely friend with a big ache in my heart.
I decided: if death does not come for me here, or on the way back, I will tell her what I am thinking and feeling. I won’t do it from here. I want to be back home when I tell her.
As I moved through my days there, death was on my mind, but not in a bad way. Kind of like an old friend who knows you, and who would like to see you some time, but it’s no rush because you understand each others’ schedules.
I enjoyed my days. Mostly. Wished I had done a few things differently. Had to deal with some issues, but I had expected things to be difficult, not easy.
Then there was the trip back.
It was even longer than the trip there.
It took a long time. I would suggest bringing work, books, games, etc., if you don’t sleep easily.
Eventually, I made it back home, and I contacted my friend from childhood and I told her about the girl in the window.
My dear friend sweetly thanked me for my note ...
And she said our friendship would always be there ...
Past, present and future.
Kind of like death.
Only a lot more pleasant and cheerful.
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