Left Bank of the Seine

After all I’ve achieved in my journey as a teller of tales, I still consider myself a novice—especially when measured against the great voices of a past time. Life has a strange way of stunting growth—not always of the pen, but of the space to wield it freely. I cannot retreat into my books or simply lose myself in words like the great writers that came a century before me. I don't have the luxury.

And yet, here I am—seated in awe at Shakespeare and Company, a famous little literary utopia nestled along the banks of the Seine. I situate myself at a small desk on the second floor—one I choose to believe, whether by truth or tender imagining, once cradled the elbows of Hughes, Hurston, Wright, and others. The great Black writers I so deeply admire—those who wandered through Paris in search of breath and belonging.

As I gaze out through the open portes-fenêtres, the soft chorus of French and a dozen other tongues rises above the toll of the Notre Dame cathedral bell, drifting upward like birdsong from below. Laughter floats through the air as locals and tourists mingle and sip espressos beneath the cherry blossoms in full bloom, the spring breeze threading gently through it all.

I close my eyes and inhale it—the life I haven’t had the space to write. All I could think about is Langston Hughes and his journey and how I feel so very connected to him in this very moment.  

April 8, 2025 11:20 AM, Paris, France