Free Chasing Sylvia Beach by Cynthia Morris

platitudes about grief and loss that Lily had been forced to endure whenever she told anyone about her mother. The flight attendant passed by with coffee and water. Louise pulled out her bag and removed a small pouch.
    “How about a nice tea? I’ve got one to help you relax,” Louise offered. Lily nodded. Louise ordered two cups of hot water, and removed two tiny cloth bags. She prepared the tea and passed a cup to Lily, who sipped the fruity, sweet brew.
    “You’re tired, dear. Why don’t you try to sleep a little before we arrive in Paris, hmm? How about if I share a poem with you?”
    “I’m not a big fan of poetry,” Lily confessed. “I prefer novels.”
    “Yes, poetry isn’t so fashionable these days. Let’s try anyway.” She turned to the table of contents of her book, a small leather-bound tome. “Okay, here’s just the thing. It’s Stephen Spender.”
    Lily wriggled in her seat to get comfortable, draping her lap with the blanket and tilting back her seat. Louise began reading, her voice rising above the drone of the plane’s engines.
    At Dawn she lay with her profile at that angle
    Which, when she sleeps, seems the carved face of an angel.
    Lily turned toward the window, observing the clouds.
    Her hair a harp, the hand of a breeze follows
    And plays against the white cloud of the pillows.
    Just like the poem, she thought, softening.
    Then, in a flush of rose, she woke, and her eyes that opened
    Swam in blue through her rose flesh that dawned.
    On the white screen of the clouds, she imagined Daniel’s face, smiling at her.
    From her dew of lips, the drop of one word
    Fell like the first of fountains: murmured
    She blushed, remembering their last kiss.
    ‘Darling’, upon my ears the song of the first bird.
    ‘My dream becomes my dream,’ she said, ‘come true.
    A red light blinked on the wing of the plane, lighting the night and the clouds with a warm glow.
    I waken from you to my dream of you.’
    Oh, my own wakened dream then dared assume
    Louise’s voice and the thrumming engines lulled her, and she relaxed, her book slipping to the side.
    The audacity of her sleep. Our dreams
    Poured into each other’s arms, like streams.
    Her eyelids grew heavy, and leaning against the window, she drifted to sleep. And that was the last thing she remembered before waking up at Sylvia Beach’s shop.

SOMEONE WAS TUGGING on Lily’s skirt. She looked down to see a little girl. The child spoke French in a squeaky voice.
    “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle, why are you crying?”
    Lily did not know how to respond. She wiped her tears, assessing the girl. She had long brown hair pinned with a metal barrette, and wore a blue short-sleeved jacket with tiny white buttons and a short checkered skirt. Her tiny legs ended in black polished shoes and white socks. Lily tried to smile.
    “It’s nothing. I’m just have a little trouble,” she confessed.
    “Did someone hurt you?” Now the girl appeared worried.
    “No, don’t worry, cherie,” Lily said. She couldn’t resist the girl’s adorable voice, small and sweet, speaking French.
    “You’re lost, then?” the girl asked.
    “No, not quite.”
    “I am! I’m lost,” the girl cried, her eyes filling with tears.
    Lily crouched to face the girl. “Where’s your mother?”
    “Je ne sais pas. I was with my maman and brother on the bus. Maman told me to sit in the back, next to an old lady. I watched the cars go by. Then I turned around and maman wasn’t there. She had forgotten me!” Now it was the girl’s turn to throw her hands to her face and burst into tears. Between sobs, she tried to continue her story.
    “I . . . I got off the bus. I searched everywhere. No maman! I tried to find them and now—” She couldn’t continue, breaking into louder sobs.
    Lily didn’t know what to do. She reached out and grasped the girl by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. Gently but firmly, she asked the girl to look at her. The little girl responded, her big