For the Man in Park Today

In eleventh grade my teacher handed out photocopies of a poem by Victor Hugo. I don't remember her name anymore, though I can tell you that she was fairly short, spoke French with the lockjaw accent of Southern Alabama (her birthplace, not mine) and cried at least once a week.

The poem, however -- the poem stayed with me -- one line in particular. I tucked this handful of french nouns and verbs in my pocket and carried them to a new high school in a different country, then on to college on the East Coast, through boyfriends and break ups and the lessons you learn on how to become an adult in the world, how hope has feathers, what it means to be one of 6 billion people in a galaxy with 100 billion stars (give or take). Sometimes I recite it to myself on the bus while riding to my job that pays the bills and makes me laugh but doesn't fill me up with the things I want or take from me the best things I have to offer.

And now I'll give these words to you, because it seems you speak French (or carry around a dictionary, which is equally charming), because you have your eyes open when you walk through the park, and because you look like you miss her and need them more than I do.

Je sais que tu m'attend.