Displacement

The Marne’s gentle current, a silver ribbon bright,
Glides beneath the Saint-Maur sun, a tranquil sight.
Once carried whispers of laughter, family’s embrace,
Before the war's dark shadows transformed this place.

In the near banlieue, our roots sank deep,
Where the echoes of children turned soft in sleep.
Then the thunder rolled, the calm split apart,
Shattering the peace that had cradled the heart.

Lucienne and her mother, Mathilde,
Set forth with the hope they could somehow abide,
In a flat in Paris, a refuge, a dream,
Where chaos thrummed softly, a distant, dark theme.

But German boots echoed on cobblestones gray,
A sharp knock shattered dawn's fragile ballet,
"This flat," a voice, clipped, foreign and  austere,
"Is now required.", no debate, just silence, thick with fear.

Mathilde stood tall, a beacon of grace,
Clutching my mother's hand, they’d face the displace,
Hastily packed, their lives tossed aside,
Yet deeper in Paris, their courage would bide.

In the heart of the city, where shadows conspire,
Two souls carved their path, igniting a fire,
In whispers of hope, resilience would bloom,
Amidst all the chaos, they dared to find room.

Near La Muette, where whispers would start,
A new home, a story, a new world, a part.
A long corridor beckoned, with echoes so sweet,
A journey through childhood, in every heartbeat.

At one end, down to the cellars, Cool shadows they cast,
A secretive place where mystery our laughter held fast.
At the other, a big entrance, a fortress so grand,
With echoes of comfort, a home unplanned.

Through seasons of change, till her last gentle sigh,
That refuge remained, where our spirits could fly.
In the heart of the capital, anchored like tide,
My mother and mémé, forever our guide.

In a home where whispers lingered low,
Mémé Mathilde, a quiet pulse, aglow,
From the Jewish Dirr family, with pride entwined,
Her hands, gnarled and wise, in labor refined.

Blanchisseuse she was, with linens in tow,
Carrying burdens where the Marne would flow.
The river’s soft song was her labor's refrain,
In the heart of her toil, a sacred domain.

A wisp of a woman, yet strength draped her frame,
With kindness as armor, and faith without shame.
“Hold this, little one,” she’d sing through the day,
A skipping rope fashioned from laughter and play.

Her sausage dog, Sarah, like shadows would roam,
Guarding Mémé’s duvet, her sanctuary home.
And whispers of grandpa, a ghost lost in time,
The war stole his breath, but his love still would chime.

In the quiet of evenings, her warmth would remain,
Mémé Mathilde, a heartbeat, a gentle refrain.
Through toil and through memories, her spirit will thrive,
In the echoes of laughter, she keeps us alive.