Dear Paris,

The first time I saw you, it was morning. We’d been on that plane for hours and then, boarded the train in the dark.

The sun came up smoothly between the windows and I saw, the way I’d hoped to all those years, the charcoal roofs of your suburbs. Mesmerizing.

We walked beneath the Eiffel Tower before anyone queued to go up. Before the world woke up, really. And I saw the city take a quiet breath, then release it, slowly. Releasing beauty and light.

I cried in the back pew of Notre Dame, felt her wrap me in centuries. The collective memory of a country in love with the life she’s been given. Drawing me into that love.

It was only six hours.

It was only a train. A tower. A church. A cafe.

But it was your soul.

I was not afraid then. And today, grieving you, grieving Beirut, grieving New York, grieving London, grieving Ankara, grieving all the attacks, in all the places, in all the world, I am lost for words,.

Except for these:

I won’t be afraid.