You button up a cuddle of loud winter coats amidst the papier-mâché planets of a yellow classroom and later lie in bed with a hot water pouch, ginger tea, and an audiobook’s whisper to recharge. Yellow and purple carrots plucked on Sundays from the stalls of marché Saint-Aubin, now back home, new red slippers slipped on small feet—j’aime ça. You dispense mint forehead kisses daily, requested s’il vous plait by Léopold and Capucine and Jean. I receive hints of mid-day walks along le canal du Midi, the spire of the basilique in foreign blue, generous. Modern art offerings by enfants terribles smile on your wall and new muscles spasm as your body adjusts to early morning fog and the lilt of À la claire fontaine. You even promise me chocolatines and madeleines as tasteful as Les 400 coups and Breathless, but until then so many more white board sketches of space shuttles whose lone voyage few students comprehend.