Poussin, The Shepherds of Arcadia , 1640 It's funny, one day you open a blog alone in his corner, thinking to have found a way to keep his newspaper is free but feels a bit sad with his "zero comment". And later, readers report. You say "OHLALA I will not write that, it will fill the atmosphere, the poor, etc.." There. And hey, we pulled himself together: "This is my blog, damn it!", To quote another . All that to say I am sorry to be gloomy but I need to write the following: yes, need, for some reason, go figure. As a friend told me yesterday, writing is also a way to be sure never to forget. It must be for that. Here is a part of the long shopping list of my memories with my mother and grandmother, both mounted to heaven two years ago.
It's Saturday and I have seven years. Or eight, or nine. All Saturdays are the same, anyway. I hate Sundays, but I do not know if I like Saturday.
It's great, Saturday is a day of French fries. My mother put on the table a glass dish lined with paper towel and filled potatoes browned. It smells like peanuts warm. Yippee, it is eaten with your hands! I love to grab a fry and a walk on my plate, by tracing paths on a range of salt crystals. But my mother is already rising. It will close the windows. My father also rises and puts his jacket. J'engloutis the rest to full speed. I hear the voice of my mother on the phone. Six words that will deliver over thirty years in the same order, the same tone, without adding one. "Hello? This is us! It happens." I hear the garage door open and the engine purring. I have not seen my father out. It is already down and smokes his gypsy by maneuvering the car into reverse. I ran.
Solaize Vernaison. Silence in the car. The bridge over the Rhone is still great, home to the roof of multicolored tiles still mysterious. It is too small to live. Looks like a silent chapel. Vernaison Grigny, Givors. A statue of liberty communist, a yaw rising, buildings of all colors.
My grandmother is standing before the small parking lot that borders the road. I jumped in my seat. I know it's the end of silence. She moved to the back, next to me. She smiled, said hello, give me a rock in chocolate. She starts a conversation with my mother. She said there was nothing good on TV, that coffee is expensive, she laughed while telling a man gave him twenty years younger. She is happy. My mother simply responds in a voice barely audible, but lovable, fixing the road straight ahead. Two women, two worlds. My mother without makeup, my mother one hundred percent cotton, mother caring and gentle but also serious and silent. My grandmother's perfume, wearing, cheerful, my grandmother, who wonder how it's going to school, which still has things to say. And who gives and gives and gives again, as children of his neighborhood, chocolate, apple fritters it has prepared us, pictures of my favorite singers cut from TV programs ...
We arrive at the supermarket parking lot. Each takes a trolley line and its shelves. I zigzags. I spend with my father about toys, I know he'll buy one. He never says no, except for Barbie dolls, it's forbidden, I do not know why.
I galloped back to my mother fruit and vegetables. Very quickly, I'm bored. I go to the boxes. My grandmother had already finished, she expects the other side, sitting on a bench. I agree. We are discussing. She talks about price in old francs, I do not understand not. I like when she talks to me about my grandfather, I have not known. They fought all the time. She told me that one day she sent him a glass ashtray in FIG. She tells me she kicks off her dentist. I laugh.
My parents arrive with their carts full. We go to the car. My grandmother tended a pot of flowers to my mother. She smiled, taking it and said "they are pretty", looking a little sad. We drive and tabling my grandmother home. I make him cuckoo hand since the car restarted, it responds despite his bags that bother.
We return to the tiles intriguing. I have a little headache.
We arrive in our village. We turn and we park in the parking lot of the cemetery. My mother asks me if I want to come. I do not know. When I stay in the car, I fear itself. When I go with them, I'm scared too. It is a strange place: we only hear the gravel being crushed and there is a death in each cross, thousands of dead who are God knows what under our feet.
I come. The grave of my sister is different: no cross, no name, just a stone slab with his name and two dates, 1969-1979. My parents are active in silence, throwing flowers behind a fence where lie heaps of plants faded, tear the foam, sort small white pebbles that surround the marble. My mother dropped the pot offered by my grandmother, my father goes to fetch water. I am reassured when I see visitors in the alleys of the cemetery, but this is rare. I do not like when we are alone with the dead.
We close the great gate that creaks and assemble in the car. Got home, I run, I dig into the bags looking for cakes, I go with my new toy. My parents fall races. It is 14 o'clock, my father turns and descends to the garden. It dates back to the dinner hour. My mother lies down in front of TV until evening.
It's Saturday and I have seven years. Or eight, or nine. All Saturdays are the same, anyway. I hate Sundays, but I do not know if I like Saturday.
It's great, Saturday is a day of French fries. My mother put on the table a glass dish lined with paper towel and filled potatoes browned. It smells like peanuts warm. Yippee, it is eaten with your hands! I love to grab a fry and a walk on my plate, by tracing paths on a range of salt crystals. But my mother is already rising. It will close the windows. My father also rises and puts his jacket. J'engloutis the rest to full speed. I hear the voice of my mother on the phone. Six words that will deliver over thirty years in the same order, the same tone, without adding one. "Hello? This is us! It happens." I hear the garage door open and the engine purring. I have not seen my father out. It is already down and smokes his gypsy by maneuvering the car into reverse. I ran.
Solaize Vernaison. Silence in the car. The bridge over the Rhone is still great, home to the roof of multicolored tiles still mysterious. It is too small to live. Looks like a silent chapel. Vernaison Grigny, Givors. A statue of liberty communist, a yaw rising, buildings of all colors.
My grandmother is standing before the small parking lot that borders the road. I jumped in my seat. I know it's the end of silence. She moved to the back, next to me. She smiled, said hello, give me a rock in chocolate. She starts a conversation with my mother. She said there was nothing good on TV, that coffee is expensive, she laughed while telling a man gave him twenty years younger. She is happy. My mother simply responds in a voice barely audible, but lovable, fixing the road straight ahead. Two women, two worlds. My mother without makeup, my mother one hundred percent cotton, mother caring and gentle but also serious and silent. My grandmother's perfume, wearing, cheerful, my grandmother, who wonder how it's going to school, which still has things to say. And who gives and gives and gives again, as children of his neighborhood, chocolate, apple fritters it has prepared us, pictures of my favorite singers cut from TV programs ...
We arrive at the supermarket parking lot. Each takes a trolley line and its shelves. I zigzags. I spend with my father about toys, I know he'll buy one. He never says no, except for Barbie dolls, it's forbidden, I do not know why.
I galloped back to my mother fruit and vegetables. Very quickly, I'm bored. I go to the boxes. My grandmother had already finished, she expects the other side, sitting on a bench. I agree. We are discussing. She talks about price in old francs, I do not understand not. I like when she talks to me about my grandfather, I have not known. They fought all the time. She told me that one day she sent him a glass ashtray in FIG. She tells me she kicks off her dentist. I laugh.
My parents arrive with their carts full. We go to the car. My grandmother tended a pot of flowers to my mother. She smiled, taking it and said "they are pretty", looking a little sad. We drive and tabling my grandmother home. I make him cuckoo hand since the car restarted, it responds despite his bags that bother.
We return to the tiles intriguing. I have a little headache.
We arrive in our village. We turn and we park in the parking lot of the cemetery. My mother asks me if I want to come. I do not know. When I stay in the car, I fear itself. When I go with them, I'm scared too. It is a strange place: we only hear the gravel being crushed and there is a death in each cross, thousands of dead who are God knows what under our feet.
I come. The grave of my sister is different: no cross, no name, just a stone slab with his name and two dates, 1969-1979. My parents are active in silence, throwing flowers behind a fence where lie heaps of plants faded, tear the foam, sort small white pebbles that surround the marble. My mother dropped the pot offered by my grandmother, my father goes to fetch water. I am reassured when I see visitors in the alleys of the cemetery, but this is rare. I do not like when we are alone with the dead.
We close the great gate that creaks and assemble in the car. Got home, I run, I dig into the bags looking for cakes, I go with my new toy. My parents fall races. It is 14 o'clock, my father turns and descends to the garden. It dates back to the dinner hour. My mother lies down in front of TV until evening.
