Bastille Day, six years ago, in the photo, she stands on the beach at Nice
Remembers feeling blessed to scrunch her toes in the sand where the very rich
and the artistic both loved to frolic - the playground frequented by Picasso, Matisse,
Monet - and the writers - Stein, Hemingway, Gatsby and others, too many to mention
The words idyllic and privileged occurred to her more than once but she didn't mind.
Fast forward to the present: annual celebrations underway for France's biggest revelry
as dark inks the night, and fireworks are readied to be-jewel the sky. Abruptly, chaos
reigns - a thunderous cacophony, and some flares - did the fireworks begin early?
All too soon it becomes apparent something much less celebratory is happening ...
An out-of-control truck is careening at high speed down the main boulevard; the place
is chock-a-block with people of all ages and no other vehicles. There is no escaping
the death-mobile. The night air saturates: shooting, screaming, blood, and dying.
Dying. Before police are able to kill the driver, dozens of dead line the street
with dozens more seriously injured. A terrorist attack takes place in Nice on Bastille Day.
The woman stares at her photograph through stinging tears; first it was Paris, now
Nice; she carves out room to house more hurt in her heart. It's all she can think to do.