when the night comes on in paris on december the eleventh, two-thousand-eight, it appears that the moon is full. it is crisp – white. sharp-edged.
after a morning spent passing a french test, an afternoon in a silent library reading room, and an evening drinking coffee with friends and taking advantage of an open-house at the cluny museum of the middle ages, i return home & set myself to the gifts still before me.
there is a short pile – the card i received two days ago from friends, but which i have been saving, a slim package received in the mail this evening, a gift from my parents, and a packet that so resembles a cd in size and shape that i don’t even have to shake it to be sure it isn’t a puzzle. it is my birthday. before anything here can be opened, i call my mom & sing to her.