About a month ago I met a precious 80 year old french girl, Yvette. Having seen her walk the beach many times with her cane and headwraps I smiled at her and was treated to an hour long conversation which i will never forget. Before I told her my name she had grabbed my hand and asked in her delicate french accent " tell me my dear what is it you dream of". We talked about writing and romance and faith and hope and the last thing she said to me before we parted was a recitation of a poem she wrote years ago after leaving France and coming to Edmonds:

Scribbled on my notebook it reads

For Sharon (Chair-un)

A multitude of clouds
are now painting the sky,
above the sea
and gives a shade of melancholy.
How could I pretend not being
there, when I feel the
voluminous waves splashing
high in the air?

Yvette Holochair