Jim bounced in the seat of his 1984 Peugeot Cambriolet as he drove through the hills leading to Honfleur. The convertible’s top, retracted to protect him from the disintigrating, narrow pavement on the back road, provided him with the opportunity to see the green foliage which covered the countryside.
Perhaps, he might find some trace of his past here; and, perhaps, it would help him make sense of the present, devoid of his wife of thirty years, and children who were off discovering their own worlds.
The autumn morning flickered through the green and yellow flora as the road snaked into the village, winding its way down to the Rue Du Puits past the old church and onto Rue de L’Homme de Bois, a cobblestone, one-way street bordered by a 600 year old stone fence overlooking the grand harbor.
The old apartment he rented was from another era, but not as old as the street. From the front window he could see the harbor and, to the south, a wall encrusted in red and yellow ivy. Rivers of green leaves flowed through the backdrop of colors, gray stone . . and years, thousands of years of history.