"Tour Eiffel," Bryce Dessner with Kronos Quartet
"Ruche de mots, encrier de miel..."
Hello! If you are new here, I suggest you go back to the start and read the story sequentially. The full list of scenes is here if you’ve missed an instalment, and read this if you’d like to know where the memoir is going.
The following weekend, I see the boys off as they head to their father’s for the holidays. Even though this has been our twice-yearly routine for ten years, neither they nor I are quite used to the pre-flight jumble of emotions, with its excitement and sadness, relief and guilt to be either leaving or soon alone. Tiptoeing, aware, keeping things light for each other’s sake.
‘I’ll miss you, Mom,’ they reassure me in turn. ‘Can’t you come with us, this time, or spend Christmas with the cousins so you’re not by yourself?’
Remembering how heavy my wings were as a girl, with each of my own transatlantic migrations for summers in New York with my dad and back to school time in Paris, I echo back cheerful variations on how much fun they will have, how I’ve lined up work and books and films in their absence.
Ever leaving a parent behind, I grew up feeling responsible for both my mother’s stability and my father’s mental wellness, his sadness heavier than all the bags of clothes and gifts he would send my sister and me home with. As a parent, I now do my best to avert any sense of neediness that might intrude on the boys’ special time with their father. I let them steer our long-distance relationship when they are away, calling with birthday or other special messages, and otherwise stepping back. Yet I clearly haven’t got the balance right, since they come home wondering if I’ve missed them, too.
Aware of my tendency to cluck, when Ben was offered a full boarding scholarship for his A Levels, and again leaving for Cambridge, I tried not to interfere with his new routines and treasured his spontaneous calls. When he told me off for not calling often enough, I fretted that I had pushed my maternal detachment too far. He was generous about sharing his solitary moods, picking up the phone to chat about nothing in particular or to ask for esoteric cooking tips, strumming his latest sound doodle from afar. Our calls created sweet pauses from my hamster wheel of domestic concerns, reminders to savour our precious connection.
We want to be reassured, to be central without the burden of being essential. We simultaneously crave being the beating heart of a relationship and a comforting cloak—a nice, unessential accessory… Before climbing back up to our empty flat, I take my time, weaving through Clifton’s fairy-lit wonderland and cafes, musing the distance that is etched into all my close relationships. In the busy streets, every little arm I see reaching for an adult’s hand, every tiny sock that dangles from a baby carrier sends a pang of nostalgia to my heart. I remember how miserable my ex and I were, seeing Ben off, aged five, as he took the flight attendant’s hand for a fortnight of fun at my sister’s. Like me, decades earlier, he hadn’t looked back—a mark of courage, of trust? Or of grit against a wobble? However much distance has ended up in my DNA does nothing to ease the separation from those I love.
After a six-month marathon of solo parenting, I am always a bit off the first couple of days without the boys. I forget to eat, lose track of time wandering, spend hours on the phone. Until, like that, an invisible gear shifts into single life. I dust off a forgotten self and fill every minute of the day with daydreams and creative projects, accepting invitations I’d otherwise be too exhausted to attend.
A week in, I drive an hour north to my friend Anna’s, for a festive season weekend. We catch up on local gossip over bowls of soup in her AGA kitchen and dance ourselves silly in front of roaring fires. Her teenage daughter rolls her eyes as our cheeks burn with laughter, re-enacting trivial village dramas. Anna’s thoughtful invitations always come when I might otherwise be at a loose end. She feeds me homey stews and roasts more delicious than any restaurant feast, knowing how rubbish I am about cooking when I’m not in family mode. Her house is vast and well heated, decorated in beiges and woollen throws that speak of sensible choices and stability. With a life that has been a haphazard succession of international moves and deus ex machina denouements, nestling into her guest bedroom of sturdy furniture and the softest high-thread-count sheets always elicits a sense of awe. Staying at Anna’s offers a peek into a security that only seems to exist in Cotswold Living.
After supper, she sends me to bed with a fluffy hot water bottle, and I unwrap my ritual items, pondering how the Goddess’s solace best reveals itself in unstable situations. Sprinkling grains of rice to each cardinal direction, I bow first to Her benevolent aspects, harmony, wisdom, and balance, on the outer petals of Her mandala. Leaning into the Goddess’s ever-shifting inner landscape, I spiral prayers to the next flourishing of lotus petals—disharmony, ignorance, confusion. Tossing modest offerings in ever-tighter swirls, I reach three, and then a single petal in the centre, until all shades of Her universe have been honoured and I am in Her lap of stillness. Tired and dizzy, I am grateful to pretend that, for the space of a cosy weekend, my life is under control, even if it means getting on all fours past midnight to retrieve grains of rice from plush carpeting.
On my last evening with her family, Anna’s party sparkles with clutch handbags and fizz; conversations flit from pool house refurbs to getaways in the Maldives. As laughter rises in the tiled Vicarage hall, heavy snowflakes gather past the tall windows. Having quietly discussed the ominous forecast, we hug goodbye, and I slip into the sharp night. My tyres crunch along the thickly gravelled driveway as merriment casts shadows on the elegant lawn, and I am awash with relief. Perhaps I will never entirely be a grownup, given how much I enjoy cocktail party truancy. As the electric gate swings open without a sound, I am struck by a ringing silence against the ambient buzz I have just left.
Reaching the motorway to Bristol, my playlist flips to “Tour Eiffel1,” a fitting background for hurtling into an empty night. With the music cranked up, the shrillness of the choir shrillness reflects the icy darkness, and I feel infinite and held in the capsule of my car. Just as giant pillowy flakes bump against the windscreen, my aloneness is dampened by comforting piano and guitar cadences. Then a shift—angelic voices warm against a staccato loop, disquieting brasses and plucked chords that build into stridency. When the piece resolves in a gusty acceleration of drums, keys, and voices, my face is awash in a familiar longing for home.
Moving through time and space, I make my way south with the album on repeat, once more shooting along memories of the Seine in the depth of night, dark waters gleaming and alive as we passed the Eiffel Tower2. Shades of home bleed into each other until I am back in Bristol and about to turn onto Prince’s Buildings. My gaze reaches beyond the suspended lights of Brunel’s tour de force, gliding over the silent gorge and into the dark woods on the other side.
Waking late to a blanket of snow, I am surprised to find a message from Adam, my first boyfriend turned old friend, telling me that he is coming for a couple of days after Christmas. We’ve been talking about his visit to England for so many years—eight, precisely— that it’s become a joke. He hates the cold, so why now? It’s as if last night’s timeless daydream has summoned him, the wordless river driver from all those years ago.
This is Faye’s Wing, a series of multimedia scenes about the creative quest for fulfilment beyond a fixed spiritual identity. It comes out every Wednesday, and often features music and visuals from contributing artists.
Bryce Dessner for Kronos Quartet, Aheym, 2013.
“Tour Eiffel… Ruche des mots, Encrier de miel,” Vicente Huidobro, 1917.
Okay, I'm hooked after two scenes... ☺️
This is lovely. Your writing draws us in with an intimacy that feels honest but not cloying. The motorway film with accompanying music takes us right inside your thoughts to this snapshot in time which is very relatable. Looking forward to the next chapter…