she asked me where I took the beautiful photo of those stairs
how did I find it?
"It’s high up, in a low building”, I said
you have to climb to the top of these stairs
but before that, you have to have gone to Paris
and you went there because you were trying to forget, and to remember, and to replace something you wanted to lose
so you get there by starting in Los Angeles
eight years before
and you walk out one night into the rain, carrying nothing but a backpack
after talking for the first time in ten years with the family you lost
and with that backpack you leave your home and life behind
and feel a stillness, and the white whip of crisp night air on your face
while staring up and finding that you don’t actually want to die tonight
because your footsteps sounded firm
then your job becomes your refuge
and you sleep on your office floor
this is the best rest you’ve had in as many years as you can remember
and you repeat this night after night
for a while
until you see someone
and until they see you, and more in you than you
and this is who brings you to their couch
cooks for you
loves on you
takes you into their bed
into their life
away from yours and into and through two years of depositions, and money draining divorce
and you escape with this love of yours, and with your Mother, on a trip to Paris
and you walk half bent over
and have a seizure in Paris, in the airport, but refuse medical help
you just want to get home
and all the while you feel so damned lucky to not have the old pain
and all the while you mistake that absence of pain for true love
because this person found you
because this one is special
because this one
so you marry them
so you publicly love each other now
and you go to Paris, again, for two weeks to live your honeymoon
but it’s not what you thought it would be
and you’re not what you thought you would be
and you come back to your lives
For two years
you both try to make it
but you're both broken
so it slowly, and painfully dies
but this pain is less than the old pain
so you ignore it
and you know you can't be hurt like you were before
and so you live forward, take risks that could make you lose her
thinking things will work out because you want them to
but you drink too much wine
think too much of the time
accept the fact that that she likes to be alone, in her thoughts, in bed
while she winds her hair
and seeks advice from others
and turns away to go to sleep
to begin another day
and when August finally comes, your birthday is the last time to feel married
September brings divorce
and a new wonderful, great, accomplishment job
but you’re more depressed than you thought was humanly possible
because that life died
and the hope of it
and hope with it
so you go along with the divorce, finally, after months of depressed struggle trying to accept the paperwork
and the final paperwork arrives and is ready months later
like slow water drops, filling a pool, it finally comes to its level
the dream job delivers a chance to speak at a conference in Russia
and in the back of your mind, you allow yourself to consider diverting your trip back,
to stop in Paris
even though your broken heart lies there in its streets
and you go to Paris on your way back from the cold of Moscow
and rent an apartment in les Marais, two blocks from where you honeymooned
because you want to stand with your face into the wind
and see and feel all of it
With all its pain, without her
so each morning of those five days in Paris, you eat an omelette and drink Americano
in the same cafe you went to on your honeymoon
now thinking and being alone, considering what to do each moment without your companion
a walk down to the Seine, or is it too early for a glass of Bordeaux?
and the morning after you arrive in Paris, you walk to Notre Dame Cathedral and attend Easter Mass
because it’s possible, and it’s there, and so are you
staring up at the ceiling, looking out at the crowd, feeling alone but alive
you cry
and afterward, get up, walk out, and around, and back, and have a coffee
but you enjoy the peace
and feel some bits of the love you felt for Paris again
while each morning brings the last day closer
and the love for Paris replaces some of the pain of losing your love
you ask your apartment owner for the closest business that can help you send your divorce papers to the US
and you walk there
with your divorce papers
and sign them
and send them
two blocks from the cafe where you went every morning, with your lifelong love, on your honeymoon
and you sit back down in the cafe
and feel nothing
but want to feel everything
and instead feel resolved
waking up on your final day, you go to the one museum that was closed on all of your trips to Paris
the one that was closed on your honeymoon
The Picasso Museum
And you remember how much she wanted to go there
and you miss her again
so the museum turns out to be remarkably close to your apartment
and you enter, and see all of the exhibits, and slowly, methodically enjoy your time
it’s only your time, yours
and when finished, you see a sign for a cafe up on the very top floor of the very old mansion that houses this museum
and you climb the spiral stair
reminding you of the spiral stair in the Latin Quarter hotel where you first stayed in Paris with your fiancé, and your Mother, on a wonderful trip
And you remember the time you took a photo of that stair at the top, but it included your shoes, and you regretted that
so after climbing these stairs at the Picasso Museum
You find yourself at the top of them
looking down
being reminded of that first Paris trip
and of every trip you took with your lifelong partner
who you just divorced with a pen and a scanner
In the cafe from your honeymoon
and with tears in your eyes and a lump in your throat
with this being your last day in Paris
you aim your camera downward but you avoid your feet
And with deafening silence filling your ears
“Click"
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