Mon Dieu

         Without any warning at all, save those last few measures of a preceding song, Edith Piaf’s orchestra plays their first notes and I am sent spiraling back in time, stomach lurching at the incredibly tangible sensation of a broken heart. “Mon Dieu,” she croons, “My God,” as all the air is sucked from my lungs and tears well up teasingly in my lower eyelids. Mon Dieu lurks menacingly on four of my favorite CDs and, though I torture myself with its sadness at least twice a week, nothing seems to dull the memory of the first time I heard it.
         We sat on a makeshift bed meticulously crafted out of layers of polar fleece on his bedroom floor. Setting the room aglow with soft yellow light were two candles: a large cream pillar and a purple votive. He asked me to choose a CD and, after thumbing through about 200, I finally selected an old favorite: The Beatles.
         “How many times have you heard that CD?” he asked.
         “I don’t know, a hundred?” I replied.
         “We’re listening to something you haven’t heard, then” he asserted, and popped in a CD. “You speak French, right?”
         “Yeah, fairly well.”
         “This is one of my favorite songs. You should understand why.”
We looked at each other and were rendered silent as Edith Piaf mirrored our thoughts.

My God, my heart, my God
It’s time to start again our love affair
It’s time for me to prove that I still care