Secret pet.

It might look cute, a little ball, not furry, not fluffy - more scaly and spiky.
It's hard to touch - impossible to swallow - thankfully somehow.
It might sound strong, a great big shout - or a shriek, even a screech. A strangled throat.
It smells of sweat, of trembling lunchtime, acrid, unhealthy, ungratefully unbeatable.
It tastes bitter, inedible, and that's lucky: you shouldn't eat your own pet, even in my country.
It never answers to its name, always tries to camouflage. It looks like anger, sadness, maybe depression.

But it's just fear.

Nine lives.

Cat life one, the pyromaniac, half cute fluffy ball, half evil dragon
After that, a prisoner's life, karma kicked in, justice followed
The third life was about repairs: they called her Sam, the firewoman.
Cat life four, the eternal teenager, sleeping all day, drinking all night
After that came a life of repentance - in a monastery, quietly praying
The sixth life was about balance, but mummy cat never found it.
Cat life seven, under the spotlight: fame, money, success; public face
After that, the earth was calling, its mice and rabbits now trembling
The ninth life has just begun. It's the best yet - the possibility of freedom.

How to train your Errol?

You can't. You can't train Floras either. It's best to purchase a robot and learn to code - it will fulfill your need for control in a more efficient way.

La vérité.

This morning, I said something to my 6 year-old son that sounded like: "you know, my parents didn't really hear me when I was a child. I really don't think they ever will, even now."
We carried on chit chatting, and after maybe 5 min of unrelated stuff he said: "you know Mummy, I'm pretty sure you parents heard you. They just chose to ignore what they heard."
Oh wow.
My boy.

Moon baking

I've always taught my son: you only need 4 ingredients
It's eggs, flour, sugar and butter for cupcakes
But when it comes to the moon, it's a bit different:
You need a way to chase the clouds away
You need to look up high
You need patience and determination
And a little bit of love for what's far
But the most important,
The essential ingredient,
The one you can never forget,
Whether or not you have a rocket,
Is: moonrocks.
And no, you can't eat them.

It turns out.

Being an emigrant, I take some things for granted.

It turns out that places don't stay the same once you leave them.

It turns out that memories are only memories, even if I sometimes assume they are someone else's current reality.

It turns out that cathedrals can and do  burn, that a walk through Paris in the morning will never be the same, that the city of my teenage years was probably long gone.

Having grown up in Paris, I take some things for granted.

I've been spoilt, let's face it.

The idea of a trip to Paris doesn't excite me. It sounds like taking the bus home: nice, comfy, welcoming. Okay. Nothing much. Could we go to somewhere new and amazing instead?

It turns out that my children will never see Notre Dame. Let me repeat this. They will never see Notre Dame! I didn't take them. Why would I have?

Everlasting buildings don't disappear!

Landmarks are taken for granted. They don't suddenly collapse!

It turns out they do.

Grow (ghazal)

It's always been my job: making things grow.
It used to be plants; today the children grow.

I've spent so many hours in these growthrooms
Potting, planting, watering, harvesting - plants growing.

I'm spending so many hours in this bedroom
Cajoling, cuddling, holding, breastfeeding - children growing.

I used to be a researcher, wearing a labcoat
Hoping for a discovery, a success, a scientific growth.

I've become a mother, wearing a toddler
Hoping for a smile, a happy day, a personal growth.

Lycopersicon, Arabidopsis, the joys of my youth,
Errol, Flora, the gifts that made me grow.

Qu'elle soit elle.

She's smiling sweetly, sitting on her chair, drinking her grenadine. She laughs at something her brother just said.
I exclaim: "Awe, you're so cute!"
She looks at me with wild eyes.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
-----
She's dancing about, jumping, singing along the tune on the radio. Her ease with words, her remarkable ability to chat at such a young age amazes me. I look at her with awe.
I exclaim: "Oh, you're such a big girl now!"
She looks at me with a grump.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
-----
We're chatting in the bathroom. We're getting ready for the night. She's wearing her new footless pyjama, standing on the changing table. She stretches, and looks at her reflection with a smile. Her head is above mine in the mirror.
I exclaim: "Look! You're so tall!"
She looks at me annoyed.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
-----
You might think she's cute, big or tall. You might even be right.
But that's on you, she doesn't care.
What you think doesn't matter.
Your labels, however sweet, don't belong to her.
She is Flora.
That's the only definition that could ever suit her.