The Old and the New

The old lady who rents me a room in her apartment emerges from her quarters wearing just a towel. This is not something I ever hoped to see. She asks me if I'm eating breakfast, which clearly I am. She asks herself what she wants, perusing the fridge. Her eyes land on my hummus. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" she demands, bewildered by the off-white paste that's surprisingly not foie gras. I try to explain and she pretends to understand. "Bon appétit," she says, and I am thankful for the unusually short duration of the conversation.

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Valentine tells me she wants to take her own shower like a real adult. I'm not sure she realizes yet that adults tend not to spend half of their shower time washing and brushing pink plastic ponies. In the end she has dry spots and soapy spots on her back, and the removable showerhead has spent as much time pointing out of the tub as it has pointing in, but she has taken her own shower. Does she want to dry herself, too? Of course not, she doesn't know how to dry herself. And she wants to be carried from the tub to the bedroom. S'il te plaît.

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Geneviève, the old lady, walks past my room. I make the mistake of smiling. I'm halfway through an MCAT Biology practice set, but now I will listen to the summary of her 7 children's lives for the next 30 minutes because.. how did this come up again? I try to laugh when I'm supposed to but I'm quite annoyed. It is nice of her to offer this room for rent, fully furnished, I remind myself.

le petit déjeuner Parisien

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Eléonore starts screaming as high and as loud as she can. Then it's Valentine's turn. They both break out into giggles. I mention the neighbors to no avail. I tell them I'm old, my eardrums will pop. My grimaces give them even more of a reason to continue. I would be more angry if not for the fits of laughter in between. Who am I to punish fun? To quicker remove the innocence of childhood? The walls are thick, the neighbors can't actually hear. It's only me who suffers. I tell them each to give it one more go, everything they've got, before bed. The sting of death lingers in several hair cells in my inner ear. I didn't need to hear that pitch, anyway.

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Geneviève's son comes over to help move the frigo back into the kitchen after the painter has finished. The man is as old and unfit as Geneviève herself, it seems. I offer to move it. I know I could be done in a few seconds. But he groans and moans for an hour getting everything into place.

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on peut aller au parc?

On warm days we go to the playground after school. I sit with the other nounous and try to learn their African dialects. I watch a 3-year-old dressed like a rock star, overcome with glee at having just hopped on one foot. She experiences a fit of joy that in any adult could only be attributed to extreme intoxication. A relatively older boy flies his toy car around, explosions of saliva erupting from his mouth. Two others wrestle and roll on the artificial ground. A fourth glides across the playground on his three-wheeled scooter. He moves slowly enough that his sister can chase him on foot. She touches his back and he stops to look around. He catches her devious smile and points, angry-eyed, straight at her. How dare you touch me, his expression screams.

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I am in the prime of my life, I suppose. Old enough to function on my own and yet young enough to function on my own. Understanding the world as it is today, I do what I want, for the most part. I learn. I remember. And I live both the life I dreamed of and the one I won't regret on my death bed.