The second day in Paris we stumbled upon this bridge, literally and figuratively. Still reeling from jet lag we stood dis-cumbumbled at the site of hundreds, maybe thousands of locks on an overpass near Notre Dame. Several seconds passed before our daughter realized what the mish-mash stood for.
"Oh! I heard about this place. Apparently people get a lock to engrave their name and someone else's on the front. Someone they love. Then they put it here and throw away the key."
I'm creative, but even I couldn't make this shit up.
"I feel a pulling whenever I try to breathe too deeply or press my shoulders back."
His chest had been laid open once on an operating table while mine was sans anesthesia in emotional mayhem several times in the past 5 decades.
Engaging the tissue I waited for it to respond. Finally, memory of pliability returned.
Finally memory of pliability returned.