Nathan L. Lee 

 

I remember: after shoveling, December, annus horribilis 2020, we sat in the entryway at 

Durendale, and you brought out: 

The green army record player. 

The French Christmas records. 

And one or two little skewers for each of us you had made in a skillet. 

Ingredients: a brussel sprout, a garlic clove, a slice of spam. 

Sauteed, finished in the pan with just a little pastis. You made us guess. 

A pain in my molar kept flaring. I don’t remember how I dealt with it. 

You wore a face shield. We faced you in wooden chairs, partially masked, and you told 

Of life in France, how you and Sparrow had seen the prize Provençal choir sing 

Il est né 

In the nave of what ancient church? What all else did you remember about it? 

Or Christmas concerts in Paris. 

You may not have mentioned Brittany, but I remember Aix. 

Jouez hautbois, résonnez musettes