I smell Paris.
This morning in Charlotte I opened my suitcase and the smell of my hotel room in Paris wafted out, filling my room with all kinds of memories. I discovered a shirt I had worn with my Parisian, the odor of the shirt reminiscent of his cologne; pants which I wore there smelled of him; an Alpaca scarf which the hotel gave me for the rainy and chilly Paris days reminded me of the languid garden hours in which I wrote and smoked cigars.
Last night while sleeping I had visions of my future. “Let it go,” Wisdom told me in a dream. “Your future is already here; simply step into it.”
It is with great peace that I know my Parisian and I will see each other again. But yesterday, on at least four separate occasions I found myself crying on the airplane; crying because I missed my Parisian’s closeness; crying because I missed his laughter; crying because I wasn’t certain what my future would hold without him.
But here’s the odd part: I have no future without him, just as I have no future without Paris, or Chicago, or Pretoria, or Ghana. I am a sum of my parts. My future is but another number in an already long equation. Every man I meet, date, love, or fall in love with, will help carry me into the future.
And it’s in my future where I will find true happiness.