Ensemble Décennies

When his button snapped off and fell into the sink, circling the drain ever so slowly - taking its time, meandering around the porcelain before falling down into the pipe, lost forever, he knew it was going to be a bad day.

He finished getting ready, shoes tied, socks pulled up, coat wrapped around his shoulders, what little hair had retained residency on his head had been combed neatly, falling into place, slicked down against his skin. He was the picturesque un vieil homme - as if you'd see him in some tourist guide. He stood up determined. No lost button was going to get in the way of his special day.

When he finally made it out onto the street - he couldn't help but marvel at how wonderful a day it was. The sun was shining, lost amongst a sea of blue, dotted with the occasional grouping of clouds - the perfect amount to provide a break from the heat. The birds were awake, chirping proudly from within the trees that lined the Seine, calling out "Bonjour," "Bon De Vous," "Ca te va bien" as he passed by - adding a slight spring to his step and bringing a smile to his face. Maybe the day wouldn't be so bad.

His first stop was next to the river. He just stood there for a few moments, looking down into the water, leaning on the railing in front of him - his hand gliding over the smooth limestone, taking notice of every crevice, letting his wrinkles mingle with its.

When he walked into his local bakery, he was not surprised to find the line long. It smelled especially fresh today. The yeast stung his nose - deep in his sinuses, made his mouth water. It was as if he could already feel the warmth in his mouth, the crust between his fingers. Thankfully the line moved quickly, but by the time he reached the counter, eager to place his order, the last loaf of bread that he always bought was gone - given to the young boy in front of him. But before he could walk out of the the store, the baker caught his attention, "Pardon?" Turning around, the old man saw a loaf of his bead, fresh out of the oven, steam still rising, crust shining brightly. The baker had a wide smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye, "but for you, of course!"

Everything seemed to shape up. His bottle of wine was on sale, much fewer Euro than he had anticipated. The market was full of fresh produce, tomatoes, squash, zucchinis - everything he needed. The metro was the opposite of crowded - he hadn't needed to fight for a seat, hoping to give his old bones a rest. Even a young gentleman gladly made room for him so he could sit by the window and gaze out at the city streets as they passed by.

He had lived there so long, but his love for Paris has always remained. The shapes of the buildings, the tree-lined boulevards, the fashion, the smells - his home. It had all wowed him for as long as he could remember. It was called the City of Light for a reason - it always glowed, had this radiance. She had always been his and she always would be.

When he got home late that evening, he shambled right to the kitchen, eager use all his freshly acquired ingredients for dinner. The process wasn't the most beautiful thing, nor the quietest, with the occasional dropped utensil, but the finished product was something to behold - true french cuisine. It stood bold and proud on the plate, ready to represent its culture.

When he walked out of the kitchen, he carried two plates with him, placing one at each end of the table. Sitting down, head bowed, he said his prayers. Finished, he looked up at the framed picture hanging on the wall, of a beautiful young woman, posing in front of the Seine, the same spot he stopped at earlier in the day - absolutely radiant - flowing hair, soft cheeks, eyes that proved how big her heart was.

He raised his glass of wine and smiled,

"Voici une autre année ma chérie - tu es avec moi tous les jours."