1
(Author’s note: Readers are invited to listen to the songs cited. They are all free on YouTube.)
The house is sheltered under the gigantic trees. They follow the long gravel road straight like an arbor, allowing the house to be seen at the last turn. It is two floors; its turret and its chipped white paint have always given me the impression that it was an old castle in which once lamented a beautiful princess with long hair. Even today, the effect remains the same. Coming out of the car, it is impossible to miss, despite the lush vegetation, the countless garden dwarves all busy with different tasks. A round old man drives a wheelbarrow, a granny picks flowers, a rounded toddler protects himself from an imaginary rain with a tiny umbrella. Dozens of small signs also litter the floor with quotes more cliché than one another: “Make your life a dream and a dream a reality”, “In life, the things that have the most value are those that are priceless”, or “Life is beautiful so enjoy it and smile at it”. As if to protect the house from any evil, a dense vine covers its entire surface except the corner of the upstairs balcony, where the table and the two chairs in forged metal wait before snack time. As I move the branches to reach the front door, I always feel that their leaves tickle my cheeks and pine, as if to tease me, as if to tell me how happy they are to see me again. Upon entering, the smell of damp wood and mothball rushes into my nostrils, warming my heart in passing. Various objects populate the living room: the wooden peg gives a friendly nod when we hang our coat; dozens of paintings depicting landscapes of all seasons; the record player accompanied by a mountain of vinyl, the climbing plants engraved in the rustic wooden piano crack its surface, intertwine and metamorphose into ivy that runs along the library full to bursting with stories that made you dream, cry, that have instructed and healed; the round, smiling faces in the yellow wedding photo; the little hat of my father crouching in the sand with a bucket and a shovel when he was 4 years old; the big mouth of my aunt laughing in a hammock at 15; the old creaking rocking chair and its rough knitted wool blanket; the emerald velvet sofa with it’s gold fringed cushions; the navy blue armchair striped white. I take my bag and walk up the stairs to put it in the guest room. The large, smooth white ramp gets lost in the wall halfway through. I hop on the steps, knowing which places squeak and avoid those where the paint is too worn out. Upstairs, the shadow of the large pine stuck to the large window at the end of the hallway stretches its long fingers on the floor. An eternal bouquet of dried flowers is placed on a small white table just under the frame. The grandparents’ beige room is the first on the right; the second right is the lime green room of the guests. Only the first has a door that overlooks the second-floor balcony. The first room on the left is my father’s midnight blue room, the second is my aunt’s little sky-blue room. I drag my bag down to the pastel bedspread with the flowers pattern of the guest room. Nothing has changed: the corkscrew tentacles of the vine that cling to the mosquito net of the round window; the tip of the ceiling that leans; the bed still has its old, faded sheets so comforting that smell like wind; the bedside table with a squeaky drawer and a slightly unscrewed handle; the small lamp with flowery fabric lampshade and yellow bulb; the rough oval braided carpet in shades of pale blue, lime green and pastel pink; the wooden chest that smells of the mothball filled with comforters whose inside is lined with pages of yellow newspapers; a copy of “Monet’s Garden in Giverny” printed on laminate and whose colors have faded because of the sun; the elegant white dressing table with a round mirror, floral prints and rose-shaped handles; the small padded bench matched with its hoofed doe feet. Dozens of trinkets also fill the room: little ceramic angels singing inaudible melodies in chorus; threadbare velvet cats with plastic whiskers and bulging eyes; small, multicoloured Styrofoam birds; stuffed animals from lost times; countless braided twigs’ cobs. As I walk past the master bedroom, I see the two cats, Lila, and November, cajoling on the little armchair bathing in the warm rays of the sun. I go down to the ground floor and go to the kitchen. The smells of fresh laundry and spices form a curious mixture far from unpleasant; dishes and mismatched utensils of all shapes and colours are tidy in their place; open cookbooks pile up on an easel; chive, basil, parsley, coriander and mint hair from small pots of terracotta on the shelf above the sink; the coudrier branch attached to the outside window framing used to predict temperature; the multicolored rags dangling from the handle of the old oven; the turquoise refrigerator mumbles curled up in its corner. The veranda serves mainly as a small dining room. With its small wooden table and its mismatched chairs of all colours, its multitudes of green plants hanging or littering the ground, the vine partially covering the mosquito nets and offering marbled lighting, the bench where are resting the depleted cushions, it offers a warm atmosphere. Opening the glass door, we come across three steps and a dirt path no wider than the hand that meanders through the tall grass. The overcrowded, friendly trees know which branches to spread so that the plants in the vegetable garden grow in the heat of the sun’s rays. Benevolent, they like to watch my grandparents when they are busy removing weeds, watering good weeds, and singing nursery rhymes to them when they lose the desire to live. Wooden strips identified with the names of all aliments are planted in the ground: carrots, cabbage, lettuce, rhubarb, zucchini, cucumbers, honey melons, watermelons, beans, tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, ground cherries, peppers, onions, garlic, shallots, potatoes, sunflowers. Some are ready to be picked while others wait their turn to grow. The leaves of the apple, cherry and plum trees wrap around the branches, as if to console their weeping of flower petals. Birds and cicadas give a deafening and joyful concert. The trees lean over the circular pavilion, hoping to guess what is going on under its roof. The three hens, Valiant, Fearful and Marjolaine, gossip whilst pecking at their feed or walk along the fence of their enclosure in single file. In the back of the courtyard, in the shadow of the weeping willow, my grandparents sit in the wooden swing. Upon seeing me, they stand up painfully, with a smile on their faces, posing embroidery frame, book and reading glasses. We give each other hugs and news. I chat with them for a few moments and then go get my book, as there is nothing important on the schedule. I lie in the grass of the courtyard, enjoying the view. The thin filaments of clouds merge and demerge. Round pinecones squeeze on branches. Just under the tree, I have a blue vision gridded with wood and fir needles. One of my hands rests on my stomach. With the other hand, I caress the grass, sometimes detaching a strand and then gently shredding it into small pieces. Insects climb on me and tickle my skin; I repel them away with my finger. I take a small pinecone on the ground. Up close, it looks like a small rose with wooden petals. A small white plane slowly crosses the sky, interrupting for a few seconds the calm atmosphere of the courtyard of its dull purr. Grandma is sitting on the swing, captivated by her embroidery, stirring from time to time an arm or a leg to chase away a ticklish fly. Grandpa watered the vegetable garden with a metal watering can. He is humming. I take my book and open it on the first page. There is something fundamentally inebriating about starting a new book, opening up to a new world, to new learning about life. *** The song of cicadas begins to weaken and that of crickets, to gain in intensity. I realize how much time has passed without me noticing it. Gentle goosebumps bristle the hair of my arms and thighs as the sun declines behind the trees. I get up and stretch and then go home to help my grandparents prepare dinner.
