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The Ghosts of Paris

My mother died in October and since then I have floated alone in a fog so dense that I am unable too see my direction
I am in Paris again as I am curating a small exhibition of photographs of the city between the wars
In a way I am glad to be away from my home shores as I can hide in this beautiful city without discovery
My apartment faces that of a woman who committed suicide many years ago after her lover left her
It is said that in certain lights you can see her sad blood on the street below
I often see her ghost in the apartment opposite going about its daily business
She is aware of me but pays little notice although she does occasionally wave
Of late I have not seen her perhaps God has found her at last who am I to guess
Strangely this has increased my loneliness and I often stare ay her empty apartment for hours awaiting her return
On Saturdays I purchase the English language newspapers so that I may read them in the park
This relaxes me and I feel less haunted perhaps it just the coffee or the warm sun in the clouds
Today I could only find a copy of the Daily Telegraph which I read with precision before I walked towards the Metro
It was one of my sadder days and even the heat of the morning could not lift my mood
However although I had left the newspaper on a park bench I had removed a page that had interested me
The article was called Poetry in a Bottle and really was about placing short poems in small bottles so others may gain advantage
But what really attracted my attention was a photograph of Seamus Heaney taken at one of his many readings
I had when I was at college attended one of his readings where he had spoken about Death of a Naturalist and the photograph reminded me of happier times
So instead of returning to my apartment I visited a nearby bookshop and found the poetry book which I read from beginning to end
The poetry brightened my mood and for the rest of the day I strolled around the streets of Paris oblivious to my unhappiness
My personal fogs became thin mists and they too slowly faded in the strong summer sunlight
It was nearly dark when I returned home and I soon found myself sitting at the tall window in my apartment
Nothing was moving in the street below and the thick leafed trees although still were quietly sharing the music of the night
I then noticed that my ghost had returned and was painting her toenails blood red in the low candlelight