My Mother’s Voice

Alzheimer’s being the conniving thieving bitch that  it is, my mother wasn’t herself in the final years of her life. The  woman I visited in the Alzheimer’s special care unit was a stranger wearing my mother’s skin but not much else, like the invasion of the body snatchers had taken place, month after month beneath the surface, until one day we looked and the woman we knew was gone, replaced by some alien being. An imposter. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. She died back in 2012. Don’t worry; I won’t be getting maudlin on you.  My real mother–not that stranger in a wheel chair, head nodding on her shoulder–is who I want to think about today.  My real mother —Enid Maude Good nee Hayden, a prim, old-fashioned name, perhaps the only thing about her I didn’t love— was British-born and had a lovely London lilt to her voice her whole life even though she left England in the mid-1950’s. I suppose at thirty, her vocal patterns were already frozen in place.  Sounding like a cross between

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Dreaming of France: Tour de France hits the Louvre?

Those don't look like official cycling shorts to me.
Just a group of girls following their tour leader.
Ah, oui! Time for a photo!
If only they had French berets.

I can't decide which of these photos to put on my Instagram. 
Any suggestions?
Connecting with Dreaming of France

Comments

  1. I can't imagine riding a bike in such a short dress, but maybe I'll learn when I move to France. I love everything about these images. It definitely makes me want to be there, but I'm still not going to ride a bike in Paris -- that looks like suicide.
    Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France. Here’s my Dreaming of France meme

    ReplyDelete

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