Ashes in Paris

For years, Holly dreamed of visiting Paris, the backdrop of her grandparent’s love story, but the timing was never right. Now, she stood in the City of Lights, not as a tourist, but to fulfill her grandfather’s dying wish.

Before her, across the Seine River, the graceful Eiffel Tower swarmed with tourists; no one noticed the American middle-aged woman in jeans and a tank top, holding a battered old black-and-white photograph at eye level.

Holly stared down at her wrist as the second hand of her grandfather’s watch counted the minutes. The instructions had been clear: scatter his ashes at this location on this day and this time.

A pink and yellow sky framed the wrought-iron lattice structure, a precursor of the colorful sunset approaching. A fog of dark figures trotted across the Pont d’Iéna bridge toward the iconic building, lovers holding hands and families marveling at the tower. 

An unseasonal heatwave blew warm air around her, and she pulled her auburn hair off her neck, letting a cool breeze caress her skin. The reek of dirt, sweat, and sweet perfume floated through the shadows of future, present, and past visitors to the historical formation.

Laughter and carrousel music filled the stagnant air.

She checked for any distinguishing markers shared between the image and the current landscape. After seeing this picture for years, she knew every pixel but continued scrutinizing it on the plane.

Her grandfather deserved that.

New buildings dotted the landscape while old ones perished in a sea of modernization over the last 60 years when the photo was taken. She moved a few feet to the left to redirect her sightline and compare her positioning. Straightening her back and legs, Holly attempted to add a few more inches to her 5’7 frame in case the photographer had been taller.

After a few more adjustments, the angle was close. Holly snuggled into the corner where a Roman Soldier statue and a chest-high cement wall connected. She peered down at the river and the cobblestoned street that ran along its banks. 

“Well, closer,” she thought.

Holding the photo up, she again compared her positioning. The bridge in the picture seemed higher, and she moved toward the stairs leading her down to the river. Even with the waterline, the angle lined up, and she fought tears of happiness and tears of grief at finding the spot.

Her focus changed to the happy couple portrayed in the image, their arms interlinked and looking at each other. The man stared into the eyes of the dark-haired and dark-eyed woman, her thin frame leaning into his muscular 6-foot build.

Smiling, she gazed at her grandmother’s image—so young, pretty, and in love—not the older gray-haired woman she remembered and lost over five years ago. She could still hear her grandmother’s voice whispering in her ear late at night, her soft French accent dribbling over her words of wisdom.

She drew air deep into her lungs and pulled a small white envelope from her oversized bag; the white paper felt rough between her fingers. She examined the note as if seeing it for the first time, though creases from several readings marred the once bright, clean wrapping.

Scanning the page, she found the instructions left by her grandfather, along with money to complete this trip.

“At sunset, please scatter some of my ashes in the Seine, where I spent the best week of my life meeting and marrying the woman of my dreams.”

Holly rechecked the time. The minutes ticked away, drawing her closer to the mission. Her stomach fluttered after so much planning. 

This was it. 

She massaged the back of her neck and sauntered over to the river’s edge. Lowering herself to the ground, she sat cross-legged on the hard stones as images of her grandfather drifted through her mind. The proud man in the photo appeared healthy and strong, but over the last months of his life, brokenhearted with the loss of his one true love, he morphed into a feeble old man living in the past. 

Within the year of his wife’s passing, he joined her.

Setting the note and the picture next to her, Holly took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as she watched the river flow by. A boat of tourists passed, and their joyous laughter echoed off the stone walls before dissipating into the atmosphere.

She picked up the photograph and stared into the white with gray shadowed faces. The man sported a military officer’s uniform, while his companion wore a plane button-up dress cinched at the waist.

Gazing across the river, the familiar love story recited to her as a child ran through her mind. 

Holly placed the picture close to her heart and let the story unravel. 

This is where it all began, and she allowed herself to be pulled back in time.

Not long after the Allies liberated Paris, her soldier grandfather chose to explore the freed city. People cheered him as they acknowledged his United States uniform. Wandering the assorted neighborhoods without a plan or map, he became lost. Unable to speak the language, a young woman approached him and offered to serve as a translator. An immediate attraction shook him. He recognized the importance of this meeting and recorded it in the picture Holly held in her hand.

After the fateful meeting, the couple kept in touch and fell in love through letters and occasional visits. Returning to Paris after the war, he whisked her away to the United States, where they married and started their family.

Opening her eyes, she seemed to be in a shadow. She turned and noticed a man a few feet behind her, his athletic body blocking the sun from shining on Holly.

“Excusez-moi,” a deep baritone voice wafted down to her from his perfect pink lips. Holly looked up into deep blue eyes that matched the shirt under his lime green jacket. Little laughs line wrinkles emanated from the corner of his eyes while dark stubble covered his chin and cheeks. 

“No parle français,” she replied, shaking her head side to side, using a few of the words her grandmother taught her over the years.

He smiled, his lips parted, and straight white teeth filled the gap. 

“English?” He asked in a heavy accent as he inched closer to her. The scent of a familiar cologne floated off his body, and she recognized the scent as the same one her grandfather wore. 

“Do you have the time?” he asked, running his fingers through his salt and pepper brown hair. She answered, noting that she had less than five minutes left until showtime.

“Would you mind if I sat?” he motioned with his hands to the area next to her.

Holly shrugged her shoulders, and he plopped down beside her.

“Hello, my name is Alexandre,” he held his hand toward her.

She smiled and said she was Holly.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he stated.

“My grandfather’s name was Alex,” she muttered.

He nodded, and silence fell over them. She internally questioned why she had let him sit when she needed to complete her undertaking. Still, she welcomed the company, even if they never said another word. 

In silence, the last few minutes evaporated.

She placed her photograph on the ground and pulled a white, sealed envelope from her purse. She began removing the tab from the corner.

“Mademoiselle,” his voice rose an octave, and he pointed at the picture.

Unable to find the words, he pulled out another photograph that matched hers.

“I am here to scatter ashes for my godmother,” he exclaimed. “And you also have a photograph of her. How?”

Surprise contorted his eyes and expression.

“They are my grandparents,” she stated, shock edging her voice. “How did you get that photo?”

Smiling, he told how his grandfather, a teen at the time, met the couple and helped their romance.

“So, my godmother would be your grandmother, and my grandfather would escort your grandmother as a chaperone to meet your grandfather,” his speech strewn with French as he searched for the English words, reminding her of her grandmother’s speech patterns. 

“This means I would be named after your grandfather.” His voice was joyous and slightly louder.

His tale continued, and Holly perched on the edge, absorbed in his voice as much as the story.

She peered down at the watch and stopped his story.

“It’s time,” she said, dipping into the white envelope and retracting a handful of ashes. He mirrored her actions with his own envelope.

Like a choreographed dance, they held the ashes out over the water and let her grandparents drift into the river together forever.

“Would you like to go to coffee, and I can tell you more of the story?” he asked, and she nodded.

He stood, reaching his hand out to help her stand. Putting her hand in his, Alexandre’s touch sparked something, and her heart beat hard against her ribs. Licking her lips, her mouth was dry. She looked into his eyes, mesmerized and confused.

Across the river, the sun let go of the day as the couple walked up the stairs and into the unknown.