Silence Sings

I lounged on the balcony of Maison Verte today. No shoes, no socks; my trousers rolled up to my knees; shirtless, blowing smoke rings into the blue, blue sky.
The sun was extraordinarily hot for this time of year, and I, to my surprise, caught a tan.
It was hard to sit here on such a beautiful day, and not think back to my summer here last year. What a summer! The summer during which I broke the golden clay of this land and planted the seeds of vegetables and fruits, nurturing each one like a father, caring for them, eventually harvesting them and sharing them all with those around me with such pleasure.
So many wonderful feelings and sensations of happiness came flooding back to me as I rested in the sunshine. Naturally, I thought of Saraphine.
The sun will always remind me of her, as will flowers; Indian bean trees; stag-horns; bossanova music, soft summer breezes and Ricard pastis.
As I sat in the golden silence of noon, I could hear her say, "oui, bien sur," the way she said it, and how she looked when she said it, her flame-red hair slightly to one side, a gentle nod of her head and a sea-shell smile.
"Oui, bien sur," in such a gorgeous melody of voice.
She was the sun...

Things have come full circle now, like the course of the sun itself. And my memory plays tricks on me. Because I remember a joyful time; one of the happiest times of my life. But I have been told that it was a fantasy, that it was unreal and that it didn't really mean that much in the end. But that's not how I remember it all, so my memory must be a trickster.
And as I sit here, looking out over the red and orange rooftops of Rue Longue, framed by the sapphire of the sky, on this unusual and beautiful summers day, in the middle of winter, with my skin slowly turning the colour of Cafe Au Lait, I think to myself that my suntan lasted longer than my love affair.
And although the sun is setting now, it will rise again, and there will be other summers, but there will never be another Saraphine...