“Your first ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower is no time for tears,” I said. Her attention was fixed on the horizon, on the setting sun that pointed the way to an Ohio farm boy. Paris at sunset, balmy, perfect, and sprawling out below us, was lost on her. Neither the moment nor my words could penetrate that stare.
I shuffled away, my own heart tiptoeing into the edges of her sadness. My little devil whispered, “4129 miles from your classroom and they still won’t listen,” but this time, another voice spoke up in response. “No trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower is ever a time for tears.”
I think I actually smiled just a little.
Twelve years later, the message came via Facebook.
“Thank you for Paris,” it read.