Talk of France

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”

“Put me down as saying that I take my hat off to the people of France.” – pg. 82 Monuments Men by Robert M. Edsel

Margie unfolded the letter again, still not quite believing that the untidy scrawl could be speaking the truth.  It read:

My dearest Margie,

I dare say you’ll be surprised to learn that I have made it to Normandy.  I know I wasn’t supposed to get here for a few weeks yet, but we were running ahead of schedule back home and we didn’t see any reason to linger in the damp old countryside when we could be headed to Paris.  England is great and all, but it is a bit of a swamp.

Margie, put me down as taking my hat off to the people of France.  I know the Brits aren’t real keen on this place, but everyone here has treated me like royalty.  We’re staying a week in Coen, but some of the guys don’t like being so close to the beaches.  It reminds them of the war, see.  They all say I’m too young to be properly haunted, but we were twelve when it all happened.  I remember your papa coming home with shell-shock and let me tell you I won’t ever forget it.  Anyway, the French have been real good to us, so you needn’t worry about me.  We’ve been staying at a sweet little inn and the old lady that runs it is just like my Grandma.  She’s a sweetheart, but don’t you dare cross her.  That being said, she makes the best crepes around.  When you get here, I promise you the first meal I’m going to give you is a nice batch of crepes sucre.  

Speaking of you coming, I got you a ticket.  It isn’t the nicest ticket on the boat, but it’ll give you a comfortable ride.  You’re to come straight to Paris on the train once you get here, but I’ll have to take you to Normandy sometime because there isn’t anything quite like it.  I put your ticket in the envelope, so don’t lose it.

I can’t wait to see you in a few weeks!  You take care of your daddy and our baby and the time will fly by. 

With all my love,

Geordie

Margie pocketed the note again, the paper falling easily into its worn creases.  She put a hand on her swelling belly and looked up at the ship docked  in the harbor.  Slowly, Margie dared to believe it.  She was going to Paris.

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