Bataclan – in memoriam

See the faces, the smiles, the eyes,
The names.


Lola, 17 years old

So many tributes


Juan Alberto Gonzalés Garrido, 29 years old

Each one with
A particular sense of humor,
A unique perspective,
That quirk that no one else quite had.

Brother, sister, daughter, son
Mother, father




The scene stretches on and on,
In front of the shuttered venue and across the street.
Even a block away,
Tributes and more tributes are spread on the sidewalks.

Candles pool with rainwater;
A few flames flicker.
Bouquets droop in the cold and wet;
So many of the messages have become little more than streaks of damp.


It’s been twelve days.

I didn’t know a single one of them. The closest I’ve come to being touched by the events was when I passed a memorial shrine outside a communication school near our apartment; one of the students had died in the attacks.

The rain picks up. Fall is quickly giving way to winter in Paris and I’m reminded that I need a warmer coat. I dodge another puddle as I cross back over to the other side of the street. An officer with an automatic rifle paces along the narrow street next to the Bataclan.

I pass a man wiping his face with a handkerchief. Are they tears, or just the rain? It’s hard to say. I find the metro stop a few blocks away and head home. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

A day for remembering.


“We will not forget you”



5 thoughts on “Bataclan – in memoriam

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