what was it that made her think of him
that dreary evening when the calendar said spring,
but the cold winterlike rain was pounding against the windows;
[a perfect evening for nostalgia as she ran her fingers across the piano keys]
no melody-just an ivory imitation of grey rain sounds.
his name " Jean Luc Lasalle"
like liquid honey it had always slid sweetly off her tongue
and she remembered doodling it over and over;
her first name-his last,
Madame Lasalle, Iraine Lasalle,
a signature practiced and a mind filled with dreams;
dreams that took her to Avignon, to Arles, the Camargue;
southern France and their future vacation home.
a dreamer she was indeed, many crushes before
until Jean-Luc, that felt like love for the first time;
seventeen to his twenty three, and he was from Northern France,
his pays as the French proudly call their region [his country]
he made a living in Paris-she also loved Paris;
but Northern France left her cold,
twice a month they drove for the weekend
a bit over two hours-to spend time with "la famille"
parents, uncles and aunts, siblings and cousins,
they all merrily filled the rural estate,
she remembers the well stocked wine cellar, the before dinner aperitif,
the after dinner digestif, the "joie de vivre" poured into crystal glasses with the repas,
Dannes however seemed drab to her, grey
maybe that is why she remembered on that evening of gloomy grey;
or was it maybe a bit of melancholy for a love never to really blossom;
for this dreamer,
questions un-answered, maybe someone had been able to convince him,
to lure and seduce him to Avignon-Jean Luc from Northern France;
Jean-Luc with the sea blue eyes and a shock of jet black hair always falling
into a chiseled face, lips that seemed to be an unspoken invitation
for a kiss-a dreamer's initiation to l'amour qui surpasse tout;
but it couldn't, it didn't for the Northern Adonis;
"Jean -Luc et Madame" she spoke it aloud one more time
before closing her eyes to fall adream to the sound of the rain
to the warmth of memories and impossibilities;
and one more time she seemed to hear his throaty voice,
"mais non cherie, Avignon cera la cata complete pour moi"
she will always remain a dreamer, but maturity has taught her
that dreams are a savior on grey and cold spring evenings.
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