It’s not the barest part of herself that bothers her most. Rather this changing flesh that seems no longer her best feature. At the juncture of nerve pain a ship might balk, refuse the invitation of an open span, water ultramarine, bridge raised so the sail can safely travel through. What lies beneath the desire to leave one’s home? Linens folded, dishes washed and put away. Children raised and gone. It’s not the lack of trauma when trauma ruled the roost for so long. What chafes at her is Paris. The Paris that was then, not the one besieged. Ateliers, shops, bookstores—the little man who saved her from Moroccans when she ducked in. The train always waiting to take her back to a place where the veal would be seasoned by an uncle, cooked in pure butter just until. There the mussels waiting on a white table cloth in blue shells for her reluctance, and the usual coaxing, followed by a hard swallow and more Beaujolais. The colorless aunt who somehow owned this uncle. The drama of their child being closeted again to scream its head off. No one to rescue and nothing to be done. ***