uncertainty disappeared, and the laughter resounded as it always had. We walked through Reims, scrutinising the ninth-century cathedral with criticaltourists’ eyes. Sophie told us Muslim scholars had been brought in to calculate the forces the vaulted ceilings could withstand, and to design the flying buttresses characteristic of architecture from that era. Apparently the cathedral was never completed. Some of the spires are missing. We walked sedately amongst the throng of visitors, four adults, reading plaques about King Clovis and Joan of Arc. Sophie’s eight-year-old son ran ahead of us, chirping like an excited bird, running in and out of cubbies and between the pews, causing an unholy riot in the sacred space.
We ranked the stained glass windows in order of preference. Sophie rated the blue Marc Chagall window. She pointed out the painterly figurines to her youngster, coaxing him to stand still for three or four seconds. I captured Imi Knoebel’s geometric designs with my camera: bold blue, red and yellow panes projecting shafts of cobalt or blood red onto the stone slabs of the church floor. You liked the sea-green and grey windows that flanked images depicting local champagne production.
Before leaving France, we visited Sophie’s aging mother, Alice. The ravages of dementia had taken her mind. Initially, Sophie was reluctant to take us. She wasn’t sure how to explain your transition to her mother. I recalled my conversation with my father and was sympathetic. However, when we bought flowers for her to give her mother, she relented and said we should take them ourselves.
Alice perceived that someone she once knew was visiting. Her smile spoke volumes when you pressed the flowers into her hands. She practiced a few sentences of English. The old lady was still in the family home she’d occupied for decades. The garden was overgrown to the point where itwas impenetrable, shrubs more than four metres high poking towards the sky – a gardener’s nightmare or a magical a maze for an eight-year-old. Pictures of Charles Aznavour and Picassos forged by Sophie’s late father were scattered over the walls.
I felt a shiver of familiarity when I walked into the room we’d stayed in years earlier, in 1999. Memories flooded back. A total eclipse of the sun was to be visible from a tract of land that cut through the south of England and parts of Europe. Our children were young. A picnic on a hill. Streams of people climbing up, carrying hampers. Excited chatter in French and broken English. We sat and waited. Champagne glasses clinked. We hoped the clear skies that had emerged that morning would remain long enough for the show. The light developed an eerie quality until, eventually, the sky darkened. You held my hand. The children looked on in awe as cows lay down and sparrows began to roost. A shadow raced across the land. We peered through our sun-filtering glasses as a textbook corona formed, a fiery golden ring.
You came and found me, shook me out of my reverie. It was time to go.
We spent another day in Paris, visiting the Louvre and the Centre Pompidou, feasting on a plethora of iconic art we could only dream of in New Zealand. There followed a week in the UK, visiting friends and family. I wondered how you felt when you faced everyone, people who would be seeing you in your female form for the first time. It was like replaying what had happened in France over and over again. You coped well, though the effort of explaining everything about transition was a little wearing at times for both of us.
Two days before you were due to be transformed, we took the Eurostar to Ghent. A short taxi ride from the station brought us to a haven called ‘Garden in the City’. A married gay couple who welcomed people in your situation owned the place. Beyond the hustle and bustle of the street was a garden with pots of vibrant flowers. Vines cascaded down the side of the flat at the end of the garden. It would be our home for
We ranked the stained glass windows in order of preference. Sophie rated the blue Marc Chagall window. She pointed out the painterly figurines to her youngster, coaxing him to stand still for three or four seconds. I captured Imi Knoebel’s geometric designs with my camera: bold blue, red and yellow panes projecting shafts of cobalt or blood red onto the stone slabs of the church floor. You liked the sea-green and grey windows that flanked images depicting local champagne production.
Before leaving France, we visited Sophie’s aging mother, Alice. The ravages of dementia had taken her mind. Initially, Sophie was reluctant to take us. She wasn’t sure how to explain your transition to her mother. I recalled my conversation with my father and was sympathetic. However, when we bought flowers for her to give her mother, she relented and said we should take them ourselves.
Alice perceived that someone she once knew was visiting. Her smile spoke volumes when you pressed the flowers into her hands. She practiced a few sentences of English. The old lady was still in the family home she’d occupied for decades. The garden was overgrown to the point where itwas impenetrable, shrubs more than four metres high poking towards the sky – a gardener’s nightmare or a magical a maze for an eight-year-old. Pictures of Charles Aznavour and Picassos forged by Sophie’s late father were scattered over the walls.
I felt a shiver of familiarity when I walked into the room we’d stayed in years earlier, in 1999. Memories flooded back. A total eclipse of the sun was to be visible from a tract of land that cut through the south of England and parts of Europe. Our children were young. A picnic on a hill. Streams of people climbing up, carrying hampers. Excited chatter in French and broken English. We sat and waited. Champagne glasses clinked. We hoped the clear skies that had emerged that morning would remain long enough for the show. The light developed an eerie quality until, eventually, the sky darkened. You held my hand. The children looked on in awe as cows lay down and sparrows began to roost. A shadow raced across the land. We peered through our sun-filtering glasses as a textbook corona formed, a fiery golden ring.
You came and found me, shook me out of my reverie. It was time to go.
We spent another day in Paris, visiting the Louvre and the Centre Pompidou, feasting on a plethora of iconic art we could only dream of in New Zealand. There followed a week in the UK, visiting friends and family. I wondered how you felt when you faced everyone, people who would be seeing you in your female form for the first time. It was like replaying what had happened in France over and over again. You coped well, though the effort of explaining everything about transition was a little wearing at times for both of us.
Two days before you were due to be transformed, we took the Eurostar to Ghent. A short taxi ride from the station brought us to a haven called ‘Garden in the City’. A married gay couple who welcomed people in your situation owned the place. Beyond the hustle and bustle of the street was a garden with pots of vibrant flowers. Vines cascaded down the side of the flat at the end of the garden. It would be our home for
Similar Books
