23/08/13 - in pictures // four days in

only the view from the back garden

on less hazy days, mont blanc is clearly visible. and incredibly beautiful.

They bid me au revoir and the door slams shut behind them. I hear the car doors close and I stand stock still in the kitchen, not moving, not breathing, as I listen to the car drive away.

It’s in the driveway. It’s in the road. It’s going, going, gone. I breathe out.

In the mornings, when I wake, I am surprised that this is not my bed; these are not my sheets. I hear the sounds of a family waking up in this sleepy house that is not my family. It is not my sleepy house. When I leave my room, I am astounded, continually, at the view that spreads out from the huge window in the kitchen.

I pause, now, in writing, and look at the blind, closed against the heat. I open it. And – yes, this view. It is hazy today, and I can hardly make out the lake. Mont Blanc is shrouded from view, and the mountains are veiled secrets that lie quietly, waiting to be noticed.

I promise myself to notice these mountains every day.

It is sunny here. Summer has not yet deserted this country. The corn Alain barbequed last night is enough of a defiant claim that whatever seasonal shifts may be occurring elsewhere, they have not yet touched this small part of the world. It is warm. Even I, with my icy fingers and cold bones, am warm here. But there will be a cold winter coming, something far colder than home.

Seasons. That’s something I’ll have to get used to. England doesn’t do extremes, or seasons. Just average, grey, drizzly.

I stop myself. I don’t let myself think of home too much. It weighs on me, and I ache for home with every breath. So I do not think too much.

I am okay. I stay here, right here, in this moment. Like this morning, walking along the little lanes with Phileas’ hand clutching tightly to mine, jabbering on in absent-minded French to me, singing to himself and to the sky. And in that moment, I was perfectly happy.

I think I can do this, if I live in moments. Individual slots. I do not think in terms of weeks or months (or four months, four months till you get to visit home). When I am asked how long I am here for, my mouth answers on autopilot while my mind blots it out, sings la la laaaaaaaa.

I cannot write about these past few days and communicate what it’s been like, or how I’ve felt, or what I’ve done. There is too much to say and not enough words to say them with. But there is this: there is Calypso running down the shop aisle towards me, calling “Sarah!” and then wrapping herself around me like a child-octopus, demanding and warm and like fresh air. There is Danaé slipping her hand into mine with off-hand innocence. There is Phileas, half asleep and grinning that grin that is so young and tender and mischievous. This family, evoking this blinding terror and absolute single-minded drive to bolt the hell out of here, with its imperfections and disorganised chaos. This family, who have opened their arms to me. This family.

Yes, I can do this.