The clock strikes twelve as we walk through Le cimetiere de Notre Dame. We are drawn to the grave in the middle. More like shrine. Angels standing on either side of it and yellow maple trees like guards standing in a line, watching over it, protecting it. The eeriness of a graveyard at night. The lives lost. The souls released. The calm it washes over me.
On one side stand row after row of short uniform gravestones. Precision and exact measurement between each one. From far they appear to be blank, each one after the other, like dominoes one by one. But as we come closer, we notice the words. Soldat, capitaine, sergeant. Memories of lives lived; battles fought; people loved.
We continue on our walk, laughing and chatting. Excited for our weekend away which is beginning. Breathing in the fresh cold air, satisfied, grateful for the people that will so kindly have us to stay. Four people in a land not our own on an adventure which brings us together. Ready to make new memories. Memories like gravestones, testimonies to lives lived; battles fought; people loved.
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