Letters: Dear W&L French Program,

Can I tell you how much I love you right now? I mean, really, truly love you. Not only do I NOT have to write a thesis for you, but I only have three classes left. So technically, that's three French classes I have to take over six semesters (well, if we were really getting technical it's four semesters and two terms.) If I really felt like it, I could graduate with you as my only major this year--even though we both know that won't happen.  Now I only have to do a research project, which, let's face it, I've already done several times with relative success. The only thing I have to worry about now is whether to do a project on French Banlieues or the puzzling and somewhat disturbing trend of women going in the convents in French literature. I love one less stress. xoxoxo 

Widow's Mite

The day is a singular, pure, bright white: the kind that contains every color-- blues and pinks and yellows--with it's mid-summer evening warmth. It emanates from a central sun, ignoring constraints of time and space--mortal things finite minds cannot overcome. Like a pair of welcoming arms it reaches out and around and pulls you in a safe embrace. It is filled with the beauty, power, and hope of a sunrise; and the stillness, strength, and comfort of a sunset. It's splendor attracts the awe of every face: captured eyes, open mouths, stilled breath. 

Their single file forms a string of brightly colored beads coiling their way like an eternal rosary through gentle hands of light, each bead taking it's turn for prayer. The never-ending line inches forward in an attempt to arrive at the source of beauty and light whose gravity has them hooked. 

Some come in ermine with their golden staffs, precious rings and shining shoes. Others have their castles, crystal windows glistening between ruby bricks set with agarwood doors. They all beam their store-bought smiles with undeniable pride, lofting their trophies to the sky for others to see. 

They lay their trophies at his feet their sense of self-satisfaction swelling in their overly puffed chests; with each one he blinks and nods and waves them on. 

I come with my dirt-and-sweat-streaked face in a pair of ripped-and-torn thrift-store jeans, my eyes already too care-worn. I open my grubby, calloused hands and lay my barely beating heart at his feet. He stops and smiles and opens his arms to wave me in.