Such were Loulou's most repeated words for a week or so after Mamie left. As we came down the stairs each morning, and found only the leaping, licking dogs to greet us, Lou would mouth a faint "Mamie gone." Then there would be other things that reminded him of her throughout the day - I forget what, specifically - and he would repeat his catch phrase. Mamie, gone! - and a little sigh for dramatic effect. The third morning after she left, for some reason he believed she was here. He came downstairs saying "Mamie, Mamie, Mamie?" Ah no - Mamie, gone. That, I believe, was the saddest moment.

It is hard for families separated by distance. It is a by-product of modern life that I don't believe humans were made to cope with. Parting with the clan counters with millions of years of our evolutionary history. It is particularly wrenching to watch the pain of separation played out in such a young child, who cannot conceive of our adult notions of distance, time, and obligations. Ah, the bittersweet innocence of childhood.

I credit Lou with helping us set our priorities straight. It is a consolation, in the wake of Mamie's all-too-short visit and departure, that in just over a month, we will be seeing Mamie again. This year, and hopefully for many to come, we will be spending the whole summer in France. Lou will not even have had the time to have forgotten Mamie. And then, two months! It promises to be really lovely. There will be the cousins and aunts and uncles and friends. Dinners in the garden under the walnut tree (take cover!), at the big, stately round stone table, made faded and porous by the summer elements that interspersed generations of family meals. The crackle and sweet smoke of the summer fires, le saucisson, le pain, and le vin. I can almost feel it in my senses. We are almost there. I just wish I could explain to Lou, as he carries out his toddler lament for Mamie (Gone!), what loveliness the summer has in store.