According to what my mom told me, 1965 was a very good year for France. But mostly for her because it’s the year I was born in. This way my mom, as a small human being, compared my born to the economy, agriculture, art and innovation of a whole country. It’s quite true that the size of our world is the size we want it to be and she always made sure that I, Monsyeur, felt like I was her whole world. And what a pride to live with it knowing that my mom, as a romantic artist in love with life, that had already visited more than half of the countries in this world, could see in such a tiny being, her whole world.
She always had a special talent to tell stories, but I must confess that her eyes couldn’t shine brighter every time she tells how she and my dad met. I dare to say that no matter how many years of life I get I will never be able to be a testimonial of such a love as theirs. Above all, she taught me that love is in the small things, in everyday stuff, in the unexpected words, and behind hugs. I wish I could tell this with the same enthusiasm as she always did but all I have now is the chair in which I used to fall asleep in her arms while she told me love stories.
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My father had a big smile capable of enlightening a whole room and he always dressed suits that contrasted with his altruistic hearth. He lived all his life in a business world becoming, himself, part of it later as an investor. Because he had the chance to invest in a company located in NY he traveled there and met my mom. And it was like the whole world has conspired to, in that precise moment, put them together in the same room. They exchanged glances while taking a glass of champagne from the same garçom. The boldness of my father made him ask who she was to the fellow investors in the room. And it was because of the art pieces that she was invited to create an exhibition there. That was the thing that gave courage to my dad – a businessman with little talent for women – to go and talk to her: he bought a piece. And the conversation emanated through the night.
On the next day my dad returned to France and asked to return the piece to my mom with a note that said:
“For you. Even far, you can now have an eternal memory of the day we met.”
And the exchange of letters began there. I don’t recall for how long they talked though letters but I’m pretty sure that it took a few years so that my father could convince her to visit him in Paris. And a one-week trip became a whole life, a love story with several years. My mom fell in love with the city, with my father and with love, repeatedly and every day.