A little french | ramblings

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She is very tiny. And skinny. Looks somewhat fragile, however, she moves with purpose, clarity, with a certain aggressive intent. As if she’s proving a point. ‘I look fragil, but I’m actually made of steel‘. She has that parisian charm, a thick french accent and embodies la vie en rose. I’ve always admired her careful carefree posture. It’s a trait I’d like to inherit, the art of carrying yourself easily, so freely, you’d intimidate the fools. She always had a pack of cigarettes in sight – she doesn’t anymore – but never smelled of smoke. She taught me the importance of a good perfume, she liked hers strong, intense, woody. I remember her telling me about her all time favourite and describing it as the perfum a prostitute would wear. I decided then, I would find a perfume like that, and whenever something important came up, I too, would smell like a french hooker. My mum would laugh at this, I taught it was a goal to achieve. A strong, unberarably intense perfume is like a good sensual fuck you to the world.

She is not someone who is particularly looking to be liked, yet she rarely fails to do so. Always becoming too much of a strong presence that cannot be erased. She is kind. So kind. Wears her heart on her sleeve and isn’t afraid of giving, however, she’s very aware of whom to trust at the same time. She found the balance I wish I had. She knows people, knows intentions, life taught her good and bad lessons, and she learned them all. You can’t fool her easily, yet, there are those to whom she’ll give the food in her plate. Even if they don’t deserve it. Specially when they don’t deserve it. She acts out of love, at all times.

I’ve gotten drunk on her stories before, she has so many to tell and they are all full of adventure. She tells them with a certain lightness, as if she was reading them from a book, yet it feels so passionate at the same time. She likes good books, good poetry, and is immensely interested by the matters of one’s soul. She reads cards, owns a spell book and most importantly, has faith. Real faith. The type of faith that would make a priest self conscious. Her faith comes from within, she believes in herself, in taking matters by hand when destiny goes south. She believes God acts by the hands of people, and that is the only way I can understand believing in a greater power.

In her story she is never a victim, she owns up to her mistakes and naivety. She takes pride in her experience and wears it as a shield. Her insecurities will come out, every once in a while, and she’ll own up to them. It would always pain me to hear her talk about her weigh, her figure, her hair. I always believed she was perfect. Some taller, skinnier woman with long wavy hair would never have her charm.

The greatest thing the Parisians taught me was that you don’t have to be in trend to be stylish and you don’t have to be perfect to be charming. It’s quite the opposite actually. People stand out for their little quirks. I know that now. I think she knows it too. That’s probably why, even in her darker days, she’ll carry herself in a mesmerazing carefree manner. By observing her, I would always be inspired to carry myself like I own no apologies to the world.

Growing up, she was always the example I’d like to follow. Her endless kindness and undeniable strength are the two traits I will always wish I can develop. As well as her independence. Everyone would rely on her, but she was always cautious with whom she picked to confess her sins. She never told a story without a purpose. She shared bits of herself to give advice, to keep the conversation going, not quite because she wanted to share them. It’s not often that she calls to talk about her struggles. It’s always someone else’s she shares first. But when she does, when she shares her fears and frustrations, it breaks me. To see her struggle shreds my heart. I would always think of her as someone to whom the world was in great debt with – I still do. To see that someone would dare to be anything less that loving towards her makes me frustrated to the core. To see that the world would dare to be cruel to her makes me question the existence of any sort of greater power.

She is never shy to say she loves me. At home we were never vocal like that, we’re family, loving each other is implicit in our circumstance. So she is the first person, that I recall, to let me know that she loved me. With actual words, not gestures or actions. I remember being a kid and not quite understanding how someone so far away could love me. And yet she would. I was too small to understand that. I know now that loving is just part of who she is. She loves with intent, firmly, undoubtedly. But rarely. You’d have to be lucky to be on that list. I guess I hit the jackpot.

I just wish I could bring her luck when she needs it the most. But all I can carry in my arms is love and hope. Can only hope that’s enough.

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