When it was time for Eugene to continue on in his travels the pipe was left behind as a memento.
Now she had this treasure which no one in the family had wanted nor whose importance was gleaned. Only an inherent frugality born of those from outside of the city had kept anyone from throwing it out. For years it slept in an attic next to a broken tea service bereft of saucers.
We sat on her floor, low table between us, cherry tobacco. She wanted to put some music on and was agonizing over the right choice, something to further authenticate the mood, she was torn between Debussy whose ethereal tapestries would be a good fit and chopin whose delicate cadence also bespoke of dreams and who had actually been a good friend of Delcroix.
"Put on Bird."
Her lips turned down slightly in a frown.
"It is all right, the long fluidic lines, he would approve."
Her kiss was all courtyard flowers, Bird soars above the sands of a desert slowly turning towards the Zocalo to find friends to jam with or maybe score.
Wayne Wolfson wrote this while wandering Paris with oen in hand.
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