Ashin Asilomar lived in Paris, in the midcoastal region of California, where the weather was perfect, but the ocean water was too cold for most. Tucked in, north of Big Sur, south of Santa Cruz, not quite on the Monterey Peninsula, but not really off of it either.

            It had the red tile rooves and stucco one comes to expect from the region, but it was not famous for wine, nor garlic, nor butterflies.  Paris’s streets were still walkable, and the local schools were decent.  It was not really a tourist destination, but not immune to them either.

Ashin had been born here, grew up in its schools, went away only to get a college education, and came back with a wife. He had set himself up, changing locations only once when he gave way to new road construction that was supposed to modernize the town. It had not only displaced his dental practice, but destroyed the wide sidewalks and greenspace on that side of town.  The project had eliminated a bakery, a butcher, and a barbershop. With those gone, many of the neighborhood’s residents had left, too. That part of town was left little more than a strip mall, next to a road, where traffic moved too quickly for pedestrians to cross. 

            But Ashin had thrived after relocating, and he jokingly gave much of the credit to candy shops down by the antique carousel. He and his wife, Rebecca, had been able to buy a small home, with its own red tile roof and stucco walls, only a couple streets up from the Pacific Ocean. On warmer nights, he fell asleep listening to sea lions barking down by the wharf. 

            He eventually retired and, despite all the plans, he lost Rebecca shortly thereafter. They had never had children, and he had no other family within 1,000 miles.

            The day she passed, he had lifted her hand into his own.  It was so frail; the skin a delicate paper.  Her fingers were long, slender, and still soft despite their weathered appearance.  He knew every millimeter of her hand, having held it so many times.  At their wedding, as they had first walked through this house together, and they had held hands while watching wonders like man walking on the moon, at graduations, at other weddings, funerals, and then through that horrific moment when she was told she had cancer. He had held her hand through months of grueling treatment.

            That horrible day, his eyes had traced the line of her arm up to her tiny shoulder, further still to her face.  He had watched as she lay sleeping, with labored breath, but at least the hospital equipment was finally gone.  No more needles in her willowy arms. The alarms of occluded IVs were at last absent.  Her once thick hair, by that time, had been replaced with only wisps of grey, and her scalp clearly visible.  Her face, once so replete with life and color, was gaunt and pale.  Yet, to him, she had been every bit as exquisite as the day he first saw her, all those decades before.  

            A stout candle had breathed the scent of jasmine throughout the room from one corner.  He sat on a diminutive wooden rocker, too small for him, as he watched over her while she slept.  Her head, ever so gradually, began to move.  She turned her face and her lips parted.  Her eyes, with tremendous effort, opened.  They were brown, the color of the softest velvet, and of the sweetest chocolate.  Her lips barely moved, but he heard her whisper, and heard her request.

            “Music,” she had said.  Exhausted at the effort her eyes closed again, her head settling back, mouth relaxing.

            He reached out to the nightstand, beyond a clock-radio with its luminescent green numbers, to a jewelry box.  It was old, and rectangular, with corners cut.  The lid was oversized, larger than the opening.  The wood was maple, with an inlay of flowers on the lid.  He lifted it and turned the silver key on its bottom.  He placed the jewelry box back on the nightstand, and carefully opened the lid.  A tinny music began to emanate from it.

            “Greensleeves” began to play.  It was the only sound in the room save her breathing.  He took her hand once more, and began to sing to her.  His voice was raspy from days of hard tears.  He stopped singing, with his sorrow choking off his breath. He lowered his damp brow to her hand as he held it, and lying there, he wept quietly, and knew she was gone.  

That jewelry box sat in the living room now.  He very rarely opened it, but there it was, and he would look at it from time to time.  He no longer cried at the sight of it, but he missed her.

            If one had to be on his own, though, Paris, California was an okay place to do it. The coldest night of the year got down to about 40°F, and the warmest day of the year might reach for 90°F. It rained mostly at night, was foggy in the mornings, and the afternoons were sunny. The air was never quite dry, and rarely ever humid. Paris was a wonderful place, climatologically. 

            Ashin could walk down to the shore. If the winds were right, towering white plumes of seawater would spray up off the same rocks that had eaten wooden ships as far back as the 17th century. Looking out, he’d see the tops of the kelp forest, and maybe an otter, floating on its back, using a stone to crack abalone on its chest. 

            The walks were nice exercise, a way to get fresh air, but they also helped with his diabetes. When Ashin had first been diagnosed, his doctor told him that he might be able to manage his condition without insulin by simply going for a walk each day. He took the advice, and so far, it had helped. 

Paris had lovely parks, especially Wilson Point, whose grassy spaces fell to boulders that spilled into the ocean. Cypress trees pushed deep green into the cobalt-blue skies. People walked the perimeter, while watching the surf come in. Some threw Frisbees to family members, or to unleashed dogs. Those with different breeds would compare and compliment. 

People picnicked on blankets, even the dogless, and when a big-headed Labrador would come in to sniff a sandwich, they were often met with a smile and a crust of bread. 

Artists met, and painted en plein air. Almost every day, a busker or two would play guitar, or even flute or violin.

            The community shared the beaches and places like Wilson Point Park. There was no rancor; there were only people and animals living in the same spaces.