Senseless | H.S

Chapter 1 - A Story for the Stars

1

 

A Story for the Stars

 

 

 

“Aimer et de bien aimer.” My mother always told me. “Love and love well.” And when I say, she always told me, I mean she told me every day. Every time I left the house, we’d hang up from a phone call, after saying our ‘goodbyes’ and ‘I love yous’ she’d always find a way to sneak in, “Aimer et de bien aimer.” I think dropping me off at school was the worst because all of the other kids would stare as she sometimes yelled it out of the car window as I walked away, but as I grew older I came to appreciate it. All she wanted was the best for me. She still does.

If my father was the one telling the story he’d say he met my mother on a high school field trip to the Palace of Versailles, a museum just a little west of Paris. He was visiting from a Catholic school in London while she was there with her Grandmother, my great-grandmother Ethel (My mother and father were both 17). But my father sucks at romanticizing. Sometimes I wonder how he exactly “wooed” my mother even into one date, most likely very awkwardly. I like to believe that he has at least one romantic bone in his body. I mean how else has he been able to keep up with my mother this long? She’s a siren.

I have tried, on multiple occasions, asking my mother how they truly met, but she ends up getting choked up inside and I despise seeing my mother cry, even if they are happy tears. So, who’s the next best person to ask if my mother and father can’t seem to tell the right story, my great-grandmother Ethel of course.

“Ma grand-mère?” I’d ask. (That’s what I call her.)

“Qui, mon petite chou?” She’d say. (She still says.) Meaning, “Yes, my little cabbage.”

“How did mama and dad really meet?” I’d ask. Ever since I can remember I was always good with my words. My parents tried very hard to sprinkle both cultures over their small family, my younger brother, Joseph, and I. We grew up in an English and French speaking home in a little town outside of Paris and moved to England when I was 14. Joseph was 11. Mama spoke to us in French every chance she got, so here I am, 21 years old and fluent in French and English.

“Oh it was a story for the stars.” Grandma Ethel would exclaim in her strong accent. You could say we all had accents, Joseph’s and mine were fair, dad’s was very British, mama’s was a strong French, but grandma Ethel’s was so strong she would confuse everyone in the supermarket when she came to England to visit.

She’d go on telling me how her and my mother, Emilee, were admiring The Hall of Mirrors when a bunch of, “Idiots odieux.” came running through the halls and my father, Oliver (one of those idiots), was shoved into my mother’s shoulder. He accidently knocked her books and flyer’s out of her hands and they sprawled out all over the ground. “I’m so sorry!” He exclaimed, partially embarrassed and a little irritated with his friends, as he scattered to pick up her things for her. She replied with a simple, “It’s okay.” in the best way she could, due to her strong accent. “And in that moment he stopped fumbling with the books and gazed up at her.” My grandmother says. “He fell in love with her voice before he even got the chance to look at her.” Apparently he pushed his big, round glasses back into place on his nose, and then extended a hand for my mother to shake. “I’m Oliver.” He said. “And that’s when she fell in love,” Grandma Ethel says. “When she heard his voice.”

My grandmother strongly believes in ‘love at first hear.’

 

“Ce trucest de la merde!” She shouts, meaning, “That stuff is shit!” when I talk about ‘love at first sight.’

 

She believes if you have to look at someone’s beauty to love them, you are not truly in love with them. That the voice can tell you anything you want to know, just by the tone.

I believe the exact same thing.

| A new story! Woohoo! I hope you all will read it and love it! Have patients with me on the little things though, my French is not entirely that great so if something is a little off just roll with it. ;)

You probably think it is strange that her grandmother calls her a, “little cabbage” but just bear with me. I based her great-grandmother off of my grandmother who also happened to be French. When I was little my grandma would always call me her little cabbage and I thought it would fit nicely in the story. And don’t worry you will all learn her name soon enough ;)

Thank you for reading! Keep it up! Votes and comments are always welcome as well! I will be updating this story on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s. Today, Monday is the only exception. But since it has started today it won’t be updating until Thursday. Bear with me and thanks again! |