When Birds Fly Backwards

I would describe to you one picture. You stood at the window as if in an old film. The day was warm and gentle, the sun spilling over the buildings, while cars passed down Tolbiac, along a river of concrete, a river without meaning.

I would describe to you one picture. The smell of coffee filled our room. The sound of an accordion nearby dragged behind it all the crazy years. The shopfronts were full of colors, madness in every shade, people walked by like ants, yet the traces they left were heavy and vast. A child’s ball, like the sun, rolled across the sky. Someone sang Brel, someone strummed a guitar, and birds flew backwards. We laughed at that, but you more than me. Because your eyes knew what mine could not understand.

I would describe to you one picture. On the balconies flowers grew without asking, lilacs poured down like a purple waterfall, irises gazed at the sky, and hyacinths swayed gently. Restaurants were full again, people eating, drinking, talking about the same things, repeating themselves like clocks. They spoke again and again. And the birds flew backwards while tulips kept silent, guarding the thoughts we never spoke.

I would describe to you one picture. In the distance, the sound of sirens and the broken voices of old people in the streets seemed to want to chase time away. And children, children searching for their own voice, their small, lost and distant world. Just like us. Here, on Tolbiac. Here, where everything rushes and everything stands still at the same time, in one day that goes on and on.

I would describe to you one picture. The air was thick again with waiting, with everything that happened and did not. Everything teetered on the edge. Shopkeepers held their heads in their hands. A woman in the laundromat yawned. The postman dragged himself slowly. People at the bus stop rolled their eyes. The pharmacy was crowded. The restaurants had no room left. Someone waved, now everyone waved. But were they waving at us? Or just waving for the sake of waving?

I would describe to you one picture. A wedding passed along the main street. Music blared. Girls in white dresses danced barefoot in the courtyard below us. The bride and groom laughed as if nothing else existed. Confetti fell like soft rain. Everything returned again. The air thickened once more. But no one cared. People waved, poets waved, drifters, musicians, drivers, dogs, cats, everyone waved. But were they waving at us? Or just waving for the sake of waving?

Night slowly descended. People returned to their shelters. You were still on the balcony. You looked at the lights in the distance, then at the sky above Paris, one spring, one April.

I would describe to you one picture. But why… You have already seen them. I painted them only for you. We laughed again, but you more than me. Because you laugh more beautifully than I do.