"Oh look," I shrilled as if I saw a brocante, "Stop the car! Stop!" I jumped out before French Husband had time to turn off the engine, sliding this way and that across the icy pavement, I twirled. Across the street a couple stood in a doorway, taking a break from daily life, smoking a cigarette. They starred at me as if I were the main attraction of a freak show.
The cemetery gate was open, giving me a peek into a quiet land. The knee deep snow did not hinder my wanting to explore.
Though I wished I had put on gloves,
and thicker socks .
Like troopers, that they really are, my mother in law and French Husband tagged along. The couple in the doorway exhaled, a puff of smoke circled in the cold air, like a strike of a magic wand, "Da-da!" Other than my imagination, they remained stone faced.
We entered the cemetery sinking knee deep... I thought of it as praying.
My mother in law, who is more in shape than most fifty year olds, and I won't mention my name on that list, cracked up as she sank into the snow. French Husband held on to her with affection. They followed me more for the pleasure of sinking into the snow. Peels of laughter erased my thoughts of praying.
19th century beaded wreaths instead of flowers.
That I was dieing to pick.
I told myself this isn't a brocante, this isn't a brocante...
though I wished it so.
"Isn't this amazing! Isn't it pretty with the snow? Isn't it..."
French Husband grinned, then shook his head at me, as if to say you don't like snow, but a cemetery knee deep in it is okay.
"Art, for the sake of art." I said out-loud to myself.
He had a point, and maybe the couple standing in the doorway knew it too.