Remnants of Citrus and Sun

These last glimpses of summer in Paris feel like something I want to tuck away and keep forever.

The warmth lingered longer than expected, stretching into September like an echo of golden days. I am grateful for it—the first few weeks here were bathed in sun, the city rising to 36 degrees even on the day I arrived. I think I will always remember these mornings spent alone in the garden, before the world had fully woken up.

To watch the dappled light stream through the trees, languid, time-less, laughing, perfectly content.

The air thick with heat, but it made everything feel gentler, more inviting. The softness of the green grass, the quiet trickle of water from the neighbour’s fountain, the house itself—cool inside, with terracotta tiles beneath my feet and light spilling in through the tall windows. Every meal was eaten outside, under the late-setting sun, as if summer was holding onto us just a little longer.

One afternoon in the middle of that first week, Madeline and I stretched out on the grass, French homework spread between us, two small bowls of blended raspberries and oranges in our hands. The world slowed down. I loved the remnants of citrus on my tongue, my skin warm. The sun burned low in the sky. It felt like a small paradise.

The earth is full of thresholds where beauty awaits the wonder of our gaze.

Now, autumn is creeping in, and I am welcoming it with open arms. The knit jumpers have come out, the long sleeves, the layers. Paris is shifting, and so am I. The streets are familiar now, the corners and crosswalks no longer strange. The air is crisp in the mornings, the sky clouded over in soft greys, and the trees have started their slow transformation—deep reds, burnt oranges, golden hues pooling at the bases of trunks, scattering over cobblestone streets like the city is shedding its own memories.

I am more aware of the seasons changing than ever before, because—as cliché as it sounds—I feel as though I am changing, too.