BY DEBORAH P. SOBELOFF
That was the year Josh and I decided to argue
in French, a language we didn't know
enough of to lie in. We only knew the present
tense, the infinitives. There was no
conjugation--we or I. No decisions
to be made--her or me.
I could say table, bed,
but not ask what happened--a relief
not to know or to know my fears
correct. We loved the conversation
that could go on and on with two words:
Ça va. He sang the Marseillaise to me in bed.
It gave me goose bumps.
Our meals became prayers
hastened with bon apetit, the fear of bon voyage.
In English, I could make the whole
room spin around one word, make an hour
of tears over the inflection of one syllable. In French,
it was obvious we were ridiculous,
fallible, together. We were back in school.