France

Dear France,

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Oh,

How I miss you.

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Some people call it “homesick”.

I call it “heartbreak”.

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Leaving you

Was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

After growing up all my life in your loving arms and comforting company,

How could I possibly not miss all our memories?

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Our little balcony,

On which we spent countless hours crying after burying Mr.Bulle in a flower pot?

Le Marchand de Journaux,

Where I would always stop with Mom on our walk back from school,

To buy the local paper?

How could I forget

The oh-so-familiar smell of L’Écolle glue sticks and rubber in the wide hallways

Of the school I grew up and spent 9 years of my life in?

Or the ambrosial smell,

Of my favorite boulangerie, Chez Paul?

The warm, fresh, and fluffy baguettes, and the delicious chocolate éclair…

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But most of all,

How will I ever forget the endless memories

That I made with you

Every

Single

Summer,

At my grandparents’ flimsy, old apartment,

One that I know,

I will never see, sleep, eat, or breathe in again?

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Dear France,

You hold a special place in my heart.

Not only do you run through my veins,

But you also run through my soul.

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And nothing,

Not even the cold, rigid void I feel when thinking of

The boulangerie,

The Marchand,

The balcony,

The school I grew up in,

Or even

My grandparents’ flimsy first story-apartment,

Could ever take that away from me.

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