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  • Katherine Gotard


The croissants had been baked by a soft-spoken French woman that morning

At the patisserie we found on the way to the island

I thought back to the way our breath trailed us in the cold morning air

As my sister and I ran back to the car with our breakfast

The pastry was falling apart in my hand as I carefully ate it in the back seat

The road was silent and the smell of the sea filled the wind

Fields of cow pastures and morning dew surrounded our winding path

Trees lined the coast and were tall and thin

Their roots blanketed with cornflowers

They reminded me of the ones I’ve seen in paintings

Of distant Italian villa at art galleries

None of the shops we passed were open yet

Their faces dark as the sun rose from behind them

Suddenly I could make out the striking silhouette of our destination in the distance

The shape of the island topped with its monastery ha slowly emerged

Through the tall

Thin tree line

Along the horizon

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