I cried myself to sleep that night. The phone rang once at around 11. It was probably my mother, but I didn’t feel like speaking to anyone, even her.
I sank into a dreamless sleep and did not wake again until almost noon the next day.
It was Saturday today, my last full day in Paris. Tomorrow I would be boarding a plane and flying back to New York.
As I lay in bed, pushing away all thoughts of Sebastian, I tried to think about what I should do today, where I wanted to go. Everywhere I’d been before was haunted by the thought of him.The whole city seemed stamped with his presence.
Still, I decided to make the best of it. I drew a bath and had my first bubble bath in years. I took time washing and drying my hair. I wore my favorite sweater, the one my father had given me on my 18th birthday. That was the same year he passed away from cancer.
He was on my mind a lot today for some reason. As I applied some lip gloss, I thought of his favorite quote: “Life is what you make of it.” He was always saying that.
“Life is what you make of it, Emily. So make the best of it…”
I wished with all my heart that my father were still with me, but I knew he wasn’t that far away because I still felt his love enveloping me in the same way his strong arms used to wrap me in a bear hug.
After gathering my things and making sure my camera was fully charged, I left the hotel and headed out.
I saw many things that day.
I went to the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, where I laid some flowers on Jim Morrison’s grave. I was bemused to see how graffiti-covered his headstone was. Some people had a strange way of showing their respects, I guess.
I went to Les Invalides and marveled over the large collection of weaponry and suits of armor.
I went to the Opéra Garnier, where I admired the magnificence of its opulent architecture. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the swish of ladies’ skirts and the flutter of their fans.
And of course, I went back to the Louvre. The Mona Lisa was starting to feel like family to me.