In 1963, my mother had a summer’s work in Paris. I, barely a teenager, went with her. Paul, the son of my mother’s co-worker, was a few years older. Still, we became good friends. Paul spoke French and knew Paris well. We traipsed about Paris … the Louvre … Notre Dame … Eiffel Tower … we drank espresso and smoked Gauloises cigarettes. Summer ended. Paul wrote once but that’s the last I heard from him. Recently, I set out to find him. Too late. Paul died in 1992. I will read Paul’s letter a few more times then I will mail it to his son.