I'm sitting on the couch and watching a television program about Notre Dame, its new bells, its 850 jubilee celebration this year. 850 years and now they're busy installing the same system of locks on the doors, and transforming them into fire doors.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. My husband and I are not celebrating it for the first time since we've known each other. At least not tomorrow. Maybe this weekend? Except this weekend we've planned to patch plaster and repaint the bathroom ceiling. Tomorrow I'm dropping by the hardware store on my way home from work.
"For Valentine's Day, I got you an apartment," my husband joked earlier, and I laughed because yeah, that's almost true. We found an apartment in Versailles. Our offer was accepted last week. We're hoping to sign the paperwork that accompanies the offer next week, and start the codified process that marks real estate transactions in France. That's why we're working on fixing up our place to sell: organizing, repainting, replacing the caulk the bathroom, carting off books to used bookstores and clothes and kitchen gadgets to donation centers. I've been keeping my anxiety at bay by keeping busy. I'm not sure our apartment has ever looked this neat or clean.
Walking around our urban suburb today, my day off, I thought about the time we've spent here. Le Petit was with me, and he ran through the park where we'd spent so many afternoons when he was tiny. Time has gone by fast, and I realized not long ago that I've lived in this home longer than I've lived at any other address in my life. We'll likely move in July, a month before we'd celebrate ten years here. So it makes some sense that a new chapter is beginning now, I guess; that I'm a bit frightened, of course; that I'm astonished at the passage of time.
My husband wants to go to Notre Dame this weekend. I do, too. To see the bells. And to put it all in perspective.