Sorry, I'm a day late this week. I intend to post on Mondays.
Merci beaucoup for your patience!
Grandmothers know certain things. Secrets. And French grandmothers really know certain things. This is what Isabelle’s grandmother, Margarite, was thinking that September afternoon when she dragged the enormous clay pot filled with rosemary closer to her back porch.
Soon she would bring it into the house, but not yet. There was still time, she thought as she pulled her sweater closed and buttoned the middle two buttons. The wind was coming up now—the vent l’autom—the warm wind in from Africa--lifting up sand and memories and sweeping up all sorts of detritus through the city streets of Toulouse.
But not so much where Margarite lived, far from the city, in the southwest, by the rive de Garonne, in the little village of Auvillar.
Still, the wind did make Margarite wonder about her granddaughter, Isabelle.
She didn’t question why she was thinking about her now, she simple knew it meant something and that if she were patient, that something would reveal itself to her in all good time. For now, Margarite needed to board up the window on the old stone house, to protect herself from the oncoming winds sweeping up from mysterious places.
To be continued....
P.S. I would like Isabelle's grandmother to have a premonition about Isabelle. Any ideas on what it might be?