EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALNovember 20, 1998
Cameyrac et St. Sulpice
It’s one of those days. Inhaling the winter air is housekeeping.
I’m cleaning out my veins, my lungs, my heart and head. The sun causes blackouts in
the shadows of the church, the stone wall and a triumph of blackberries.
We’re walking behind and to the northeast, towards the Dordogne,
along the muddy farm road that separates the corn and the grapevines. The sky and fields
are all Van Gogh – all Windsor Blue and Yellow Ochre. The corn is a wobbly striped
bed.
The road winds around to join the other routes to St. Sulpice and
Beychac. We’re avoiding the main roads so we can follow this serendipitous tractor
trail. It ascends with horses and dips again with a few chickens and geese. Rich digests
his fois gras in the company of the ganders.
Tonight is our last at Place de Beaumont. We’re drying our
final load of laundry on the radiators. We’ve cranked the gas and it emits enough
heat to dry our folded duvet cover from one side. We put the furniture back to the way it
was and sweep the breadcrumbs out from under the chairs and desk.
