• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 11


The child and her mother sit bundled in the entry of a Paris church. The tourists walk and gawk and pretend not to see the mother’s hand reach out. She asks, not for me, but for we. Most wave past her, but some stop and place a euro, maybe two in her palm and cross the threshold into the sanctuary. A once grand lady with a plastic baby doll sits in a shadowy corner and whispers stories of a pink moon hung in a black sky. Sometimes, the child slips alongside to listen and the stories change to history, their shared history of the city where so many travel, yet fail to understand the struggles of the people. Today was a good day, the mother tells the child at home and slides the swirl of an onyx ring over the whorls of her etched knuckle.