Notre Dame Long before it burned, my father and I leaned against each other in the pews, down coats blanketing our laps, a camera strapped across his chest, dim winter glow through the stained glass. Two jet-lagged Jews in Notre Dame. Dark wood, dark evening creeping along the Seine, fading midafternoon into impressionist night. I closed my eyes, my lids weighted by vaulted ceilings and all those crosses weeping. I was thirteen, budding into myself, prickly and torn. When I woke, an hour long past, my father snored softly into the final hours of visitation. We were untouched, nothing stolen or misplaced, not even a glove. We collected ourselves and wondered how long we had dreamt.
Eve Kagan is a trauma-informed therapist, educator, and theatre-artist. Her poetry is forthcoming in Eunoia Review; her personal essays and short stories have been published in various journals and anthologies, including HuffPost, Role Reboot, Mothering through the Darkness, and Dark City Lights. She lives in Boulder, Colorado.