darling - [ joshler ]

(photo: w. strempler)

—

joshua puts his head back against the seat and listens to the pilot's voice over the intercom. the air is quiet, just a faraway humming sound like an airplane always has. a flight attendant comes through the aisle to check on passengers. joshua looks up at her and smiles. her lipstick is red, her hair is pinned neatly. she smiles back, and goes on to the next row.

joshua watches out the window at the green hills crawling beneath him. not long later, joshua leans down and shuffles around in his bag, until he finally sits up again with it in his hands: a small rectangular book, thick and hard-bound, but worn at the edges and faded on the cover. torn letters and notes stick between their pages in crinkles. it's tied closed with an old piece of twine, tied with a bow in the middle. joshua feels it in his hands, looks out the window, and squints at the light.

the seatbelt light pings on, pulling joshua's attention back into the cabin. he listens to the pilot over the intercom again in an even, reassuring voice.

atterrissage à midi, it says. landing at noon.

joshua pulls on an edge of the twine, and it unwinds loosely. the whole thing is packed together very carefully, and joshua is very gentle with it, turning over the cover sacredly to see the first page. when he looks at it, it's like it's the first time. the same feeling comes to his chest: a river of hope, of peace, of france. the page is worn down, and as joshua runs his thumb over the imprint of handwriting in pen at the center of the page, it wears a fraction of a bit more.

poèmes pour joshua, it reads, mon amour, et mon artiste préféré.

poems for joshua, my love, and my favorite artist.

he closes it again, and smiles out the window once more. a city approaches in the distance. green mends to grey as joshua's landscape melts away. hills yield to the beginnings of civilizations, soft-stoned country houses, damp dirt roads. he feels very calm indeed, like this is where he belongs. joshua turns the book over, feeling how the cover has softened and bent with time. he pauses, opens it, and reads the last page too.

s'il vous plaît, in tiny and delicate letters at the upper corner. reviens bientôt.

please, come back soon.

the seatbelt light pings again, and joshua looks up. beneath him, the country turns to city. cars inch through stone streets, grey rooftops glitter as the sun comes out to dry the rain. it all seems very small from up in the air, like each one is a small shingle in one big roof. the pilot's voice comes over the intercom a last time.

"nous sommes arrivés," he says. we have arrived. "bienvenue en france." welcome to france.