Of feathers and friendship.

October 12, Warrenton.

Tis the season of friends still. Greg and Sally came to visit from Columbia today, so much time lost and found.
We used to write letters, Greg and I, and now it's emails, and they're not any more frequent but just as sustaining. Friendship in spite of time and distance, pen on paper, a bright orange, uneven, soft Chinese paper laced with a golden leaf which broke under the scratches of my fountain pen head, ma plume, my feather, as we say in French. The paper evokes a busy oriental market in Belleville, a Paris working-class neighborhood, and sitting in a dark cafe nearby writing, reading, passing time.
Time passed, and it's now many years, my pen dry but our friendship enduring.