Sunday, I woke up around 8:30 A.M. to Jean-Paul’s smiling face. Okay, so I only had about four hours of sleep but still, what could be better? With his bright smile and blond curls, he’s like the sun himself. The morning light was streaming into my bedroom and I could see a clear blue sky beyond JP’s shining face. “Wake up, Papa,” he said, softly, “it’s a perfect day.”
Any day JP calls me “papa” is a perfect day.
I’d taken the late shift purposefully to have the next day free to spend with JP. I’ve been worried that he might disappear again if I keep leaving him on his own for long periods. I made sure to give him some quality time and I let him know this would be our day. Obviously, he took it to heart because I was being pushed into the shower before I was even fully awake. “Get moving,” he said. “I want the whole day. You promised.”
We didn’t have real plans; we wandered aimlessly around Montmartre, mostly, taking in the beautiful day. Just the two of us, arms around each other—Rue des Saules to Rue St. Vincent then working our way south toward Sacré Coeur (where JP took the beautiful photo posted here. He’s got an eye, that kid). By late afternoon, we had made a huge loop, ending up at Girard’s bar tabac where we finished out the day with Henri, and shared a dinner of roast chicken.
It was a rare and precious thing to have that kind of time with JP; it gave me a chance to feel like a real father to him, to get closer to him, hopefully. And JP seemed to feel it, too, I think. He was so happy and full of energy; everything was a wonder to him. He’s a funny one because even though he’s been on the street, he’s still wide-eyed and naïve in many ways (nothing like I was at his age). And seeing the old neighborhood through his young, wide eyes helped clear away some of my old ghosts. That made me love him even more, but now I feel even more desperate to get him off the streets for good.
The perfect day will be the day he tells me that he’s finally ready to stay.
