She longed for the gardens of Versailles. The tall, manicured shrubbery to wander in. The swaths of gravel to crunch beneath her feet. The expansive, sprightly fountains that glistened in summer. She dreamed of them more than the Midwestern cornfields she once missed, and she imagined herself a wealthy 18th-century iconoclast with too many opinions to share with all the world’s convening diplomats. What faint whispers of revolutions must have been uttered between the shrubbery, she thought, and how many elegant garments dragged across the gravel. Too many, too many to count.
France was a world away, and she’d done everything she could that day — the day she should’ve marveled at Versailles — to make the experience worse. And aside from a spurt of rain, she hadn’t a clue why. She vehemently complained about getting lost en route to the outdoor snack cafe, and she bemoaned her neglecting a bike rental to get all the way to Marie Antoinette’s cottage. But still, the place called her. Because there’d been moments of awe, of disbelief a real place stood before her. The inside was even grander. With lavishly finished details in gold, walls of mirrors, brightly colored drapery to match the upholstery of chairs and lounge seats perched at the center of each room.
Yet, she let herself walk away from the place of grandiose beauty, the symbol of centuries-old privilege, with such a staunch feeling of heedlessness. She didn’t even notice the estate growing smaller behind her — its golden scheme becoming narrower with each step until it blended in with the light of the sun, finally breaking through clouds. In succeeding months she promised herself to never go a day nary a marvel. She’d always find something to enjoy. A moment of silence to hear fog horns up those pent-up aching rivers, to hear her neighbor’s deep singing voice carry through her apartment floor. Smalltalk with a friendly attendant at some gas station, or a pretty smiling stranger on the street. She would never forget to see and find and realize something wonderful. And in that, she would never forget herself, either.
Pent-Up Aching Rivers 