French la Vie

Over thirty years ago, we moved to a small village in the south of France.
The house we moved into had been closed up. Old shutters sealed shut. Silent, still. Until the day we arrived.

Across the road. Across the field. Over the river. A walled garden. A massive old house.
The first thing I noticed.
Three floors. Tall. With shutters – forever closed.
I used to wonder.
Who lived there? Did anyone? Why did no one? And—could I?

Then one morning.
Sun.
A breeze through the trees.
I looked out across the field, across the river, toward that walled garden—
And all the shutters were open. All of them.

And so on the very same day the shutters opened—
They, too, looked across the river. Saw our house.
Noticed our shutters were open now, too.

Something stirred.
I wanted to run over, to find the story, to hear the voices.
But there was no way in.
Not yet.

She told me later, she walked by many times before catching us outside.
I was in the yard.
Our children, two and four, were playing nearby.
She stopped. Listened.

“You’re speaking English,” she said.

In delight, the music to my ears- because back then no one in around me spoke English- I said, “You’re speaking English too!”

That house belonged to a family. Generations deep. Though no one from the younger branches lived in the village anymore.

Only sometimes, they came. From all corners of the world. To gather. To be. To continue the family history.

Anne-Marie, the first photo on this post, Grabbed my hand, I grabbed my children’s hands, and we went over to the house with the shutters were all opened. And from that day fourth, we have been the best of friends actually more than friends -family.