It's good to be alive

During the last five years, I’ve recounted my life story. I’ve shared my best recipes and my successes. I didn’t skimp on details about my failed marriage. I’ve told you about my travels and everyday life that I’ve embellished with my words. I’ve admitted that I’m still searching for the love of my life, having even tried my luck with a matchmaking agency! I’ve written about what I wish to complete before flying away. I still have a few secrets over which I have spilled many tears. Will I reveal them to you before I put down my pen for the last time? All the frozen tears and all the horrible words that came from Husband’s mouth were slowly killing me. I wasn’t 30 yet and my entire life revolved around him and the three children, moving from here to there, to another cockroach-infested apartment. I was afraid each time the baby woke up at night crying and hungry. I didn’t switch the lights on when I heated the milk bottle so I didn’t have to see the cockroaches dancing on the kitchen floor. As for Husband, the gambler, dancer and drinker, I’d worry when he came home in the wee hours of the morning. Did he still have enough strength in him to carry the children back to their beds? Motionless, with my eyes closed, I kept my back to him and pretended to be sound asleep. All I thought about was escaping an awful marriage that had deprived me of my native language and kept me from reading and writing, which I missed terribly. Since he’d sleep until noon, I’d dress and feed the kids, almost in silence, and then we’d tumble down the three flights of the dreadful triplex’s dilapidated stairs with the littlest one strapped securely in his baby carriage. I’d try to smile, even with my heart in shreds and my soul as empty as a pagan church. When a neighbour would say hello, I simply felt like crying, crumbling under the weight of my misfortune. Late in September, maybe early October, my period seemed to be off. I know the first symptoms well. The dread of being late, my small breasts swollen and sensitive, the nausea, fatigue and a belly growing a little rounder. I painfully count the days: 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33… I wait for the blood that never comes. Just like before. My heart aches, my body aches and my dizzy head suspects that a new life is moving inside me. I don’t say anything to my mom and dad, and certainly not a word to good-for-nothing Husband, who doesn’t care anyways. I try to hide, but the three children hear me sob. My daughter asks, “Why are you crying, Mommy?” I’m worried I’m pregnant again, and all I want to do is cry. Will I talk about it with the man who never looks at me? He puts his weapon inside me and butchers me every time. I’m writing these lines this morning and I can still feel the despair from those days. Pretending to have a pain in my left breast, I waited for Saturday so that Maria, my sister-in-law, could babysit the children for a few hours. Even without words, she knew what I was up to. She’d also been to the same big hospital and stretched her body on a cold metal table. With Husband still asleep, I tiptoed as I got ready. I made sure I had my health card in hand. My stomach was empty, as I had to stop eating at least 8 hours before the fateful appointment. I stuffed a large bag with a change of loose-fitting clothes and a shirt with short sleeves for the needle that would be injected into my arm. I also pack three or four large sanitary pads and a bunch of clean rags. As I left the triplex, I released all the tears my body had been withholding. I almost changed my mind, but when my feet touched the sidewalk, I found the courage to walk to the bus stop. Once at the hospital, a nurse took me to a small room and asked me to fill out a long questionnaire about my health. When she returned, she took my blood and did an ultrasound to evaluate the stage of the pregnancy. She then explained how the procedure would go. I’d already had an abortion, in Greece, barely a month after giving birth to my youngest son. The old doctor who had performed my postnatal exam had informed Husband that I had become pregnant again. They colluded to give me an abortion. The old doctor put me under and removed the embryo without my consent. This time around, I was fully aware of my decision. It tortured my mind and my heart. The nurse listened to my concerns and answered my questions. I cried, I was ashamed, I wanted to run away and die, but how could I abandon my three little ones? I put my head under the pillow and stopped breathing. A second nurse came in and informed me she had to check my vital signs. She inserted a small tube into my vein. She explained that I would be given a painkiller and sedative. She comforted me and told me I wasn’t going to be asleep, just a bit “out of it.” I was seized with fear when a man entirely dressed in white walked into the room. The doctor, I presumed. He approached my body. The nurse explained to me that the doctor was going to freeze my cervix, the passageway through which a baby emerges at birth. I was well aware that I wasn’t in any situation to bring another child into the world. I also knew, because my sister-in-law told me, that the doctor would insert a small straw-like plastic tube into me to draw out the contents of my uterus. I cried some more, I was afraid and I blamed myself; maybe I’d forgotten to take the small pill I was supposed to swallow every morning. Moments after the procedure was over, I was transferred to the recovery room where I stayed for an hour. A nurse checked my pulse, my heart rate and whether the bleeding had lessened. I couldn’t leave until the sedative and painkillers, which had weakened my reflexes and concentration, had worn off. They strongly recommended that someone accompany me home. I watched the clock and became anxious thinking about being stuck in the late-afternoon traffic on a bus full of passengers, and that Husband might wonder where I was. Even if he didn’t care a shred about me, he’d notice if I were absent. I got dressed slowly, thickening my underwear with two sanitary pads and a rag. All alone, I slowly descended the hospital’s big staircase. Once outside, I made my way to the bus stop with small steps. I must have looked a bit tired because a young girl offered me her seat. On the way home, I went through the full range of emotions. In front of the triplex, courage failed me and I collapsed. I had to get back on my feet quickly before someone saw me, or worse, before Husband caught sight of me. Exhausted, I climbed the stairs to the apartment step by step, holding onto the rail. I called my sister-in-law to let her know I was home and that she could bring the kids back. I took a deep breath and swallowed my pain. I locked this day away in a drawer in my memory. A drawer I rarely open because of the terrible wailing that is audible each time. Cora ❤️

Before I fly away, will I manage to remove my heart from its case of sorrow? I was a woman, then assumed the role of a man for my children, and here I am today, neither one or the other for myself. I sometimes feel as if my heart might stop beating, as if an angel were about to remove the batteries. I’m holding on by a thread and I only have an inkling of what eternity might look like. I cling tightly to the idea of time as something that has no beginning or end. Before I fly away, I’ll bless my three children. One daughter and two sons, all in their fifties now. They’re my reason for living, my pride and joy, and my legacy here on Earth. They gave me four grandsons and two granddaughters as well as two great-grandsons. What tremendous pleasure it will be to see them jump into their great-grandmother’s pool soon! Before I fly away, I should perhaps make peace with my children’s genitor. Mainly to forgive him for his mistakes, his complete lack of love and ignorance of what was right. He’s 91 now and still lives in his hometown. I should at least get in touch with him, say a few kind words and forgive him. Before I fly away, I should take the time to properly write out my best cake recipes: sachertorte, lemon poppy, Queen Elizabeth and my famous double chocolate cake stuffed with hazelnuts! These days, hazelnuts are rare and expensive, but thankfully I can purchase fresh ones every summer at the local Saturday outdoor market in Val-David, in the Laurentians. I fill two large Mason jars and store them in the dark in my top cupboard. This summer, I want to take my two rascals of great-grandsons to a place where they can pick hazelnuts themselves and I watch them as they stuff their adorable faces. Before I fly away, I’d like to draw some more. Back in my days as a businesswoman, I’d always have with me a variety of sharpened lead pencils and a set of 48 coloured pencils. Strangely, I especially enjoyed drawing fish, owls and sometimes faces. Sitting at my kitchen table, I’m staring at a beautiful owl sketched by my hand many years ago. Perhaps I should take up drawing again. Before I fly away, I should declutter my closets, but blessed with good health and living well, I instead dilly-dally and have fun, I keep all my colourful clothes that I’m so attached to. Each morning, I dress up in pink or yellow, add a touch of blue on my eyes and purple on my nose thanks to my new glasses. Before I fly away, I’d like to take my time to say goodbye to the beautiful landscapes I’ve loved so much: my splendid Gaspésie, my hometown, the steep red cliffs, the St. Lawrence’s whales and the thousands of seagulls I used to talk to when I was a child. I’d insist on visiting Percé Rock once more, walk over at low tide, touch it and caress it again, probably for the last time. Before I fly away, will I cross a few oceans? I’ve visited France, Italy, Denmark, Sweden and Norway. I’ve lived in terrible Greece where Husband came from. I’ve also walked for two long hours on the Great Wall of China and, three years later, admired the cherry tree blossoms in the oldest village in Japan. Having criss-crossed our vast country so many times to help plant more than a 100 restaurants, I’d be just as delighted to inaugurate a new one! Before I fly away, I want so much to fall in love for real. To find the man of my dreams, who’d build us a small island in our heads, where our soulmates would happily meet. Before I fly away, I’ll beg the angels for my parents to recognize and greet me at Heaven’s gate. I’ll confess my sins, my mistakes, my wrongdoings, my remorse and, hopefully, I’ll be welcomed into paradise. Usually, when I’m writing at my kitchen table, I don’t answer the telephone. But today, March 24, 2025, I don’t know why, but I answer. It’s my good friend from the Upper Laurentians who’s calling to inform me that her beloved husband has just passed after a 10-month-long battle with a dreadful cancer. I quickly shut my iPad and sob. Death, the horrible grim reaper, peers over us night and day. Cora ❤️

This morning, I’m revisiting another childhood memory just for you. My father had taken advantage of the long Thanksgiving weekend to satisfy my brother’s request to see a bear, “a real one,” before the snow covered the landscape with a white blanket. Dad has asked Uncle Gaston if we could borrow his shack, in the middle of the woods, to get closer to nature. And real bears. The family suitcase overflowed with all kinds of woolen clothes, heavy flannel nightgowns and felt linings for our boots. Every kid wore a parka buttoned up to the neck. We were squeezed together in the car and we couldn’t wait to arrive at our destination. Since there was no running water and electricity in the shack, Mom had prepared all our food and placed it in a cooler and large metal lunchbox so the shack wouldn’t smell heavily of food. Dad finally put the car in park, Mom removed the littlest one from her breast and my brother jumped out of the car. We’d barely arrived, and my brother, believing it was his destiny, was already off to explore. “Wait for your father before you go in there!” warned Mom. The two men inspected the shack to ensure it was safe for us. Upon setting foot inside, we saw that the shack consisted of one large room with a wood-burning stove that had been cobbled together, probably by Uncle Gaston. The pipe, which was hanging loosely from the ceiling, ran outside from a hole in the wall above the only door. A tin pot with a lid that served as a rustic chamber pot sat in the corner. In the opposite corner, there was a double bed. The three children would be crammed in the middle, flanked by a parent on each side so that none of them would fall out in the middle of the night. The baby would sleep in a cradle that we’d borrowed from the neighbour. It would be secured to a chair and placed next to Mom’s pillow. My sister had buried her head under a pillow, and I was on the floor on all fours, desperately rocking the baby’s cradle, trying to stop her from crying her lungs out and put her to sleep. As the cabin grew darker, Mom started to pace more quickly. Walking back and forth in the shack, she raged against our father. How dare he go out without telling her first? Why had he taken his only son outside with him while night was approaching? — “He wanted to check out the surroundings,” I calmly answered, although she wasn’t really asking me. “He wanted to be ready for tomorrow morning.” My words didn’t succeed in calming her. Mom was staring at the gun in its case, resting against the wall. “What if he needs it?” she whispered, worried. Dad and my brother weren’t coming back. It was going to be a horrible night! After my little sister finally fell silent, our ears, despite being numbed by the recent screaming, caught the growl of a bear. Frightened, we clearly heard its claws against the door. Mom had picked up every last bread crumb that had fallen from the large, buttered molasses sandwiches we’d devoured before putting on our nightgowns. Terrified, she pushed the table against the door. She climbed on a chair and used her coat to cover the cabin’s only window and then she ordered her two daughters to join her in bed. She told me she wanted to pray, but the words caught in her throat. Instead of reciting words, she swallowed large gulps of dread. Her eyelids fluttered with fear. Her hands, quick to fall prey to her eczema, became inflamed. I must’ve been around six and I knew how to write. In my childish mind, I thought about writing all over the walls before the bear, who was prowling around the shack, found a way in to devour us. Kneeled at the foot of the bed, Mom had stopped talking, but gesturing with her arms and hands, made it clear we were to stay nestled against her. I stayed in my mother’s arms for so long that I felt like I was in paradise despite the terror of the moment. The warmth of her body eventually calmed us and, without us even realizing it, sleep fell upon the bed like a quilt made of dreams. Perhaps it would lead us to a field of wild blueberries? Or to the beach on the Baie des Chaleurs? Or maybe to Aunt Hope’s place, where we were allowed to pat her sweet lambs? At dawn, we were awoken by Dad. My brother was exhausted but excited too, and insisted on telling us about spending the night in a tree! My little sister was applauding him as if he had returned a hero. She wanted to see a real bear too! Mom’s silence was the worst torture for Dad. It was harder to take than overt retaliation. The day after our return, like every Sunday afternoon, Dad would go back on the road, taking his travelling salesman’s suitcase and small soap samples with him. Thankfully for their marriage, he’d leave every Sunday to tour Gaspésie and return on Friday night. Like the Berlin Wall separating two sides, the weekly absence kept them apart, allowing them to both survive. Mom’s eczema-covered hands made her suffer and Dad’s heart marinated in sour brine. We children knew nothing about life, their lives, love or the comforts of a normal family. Their tears, which they cried in silence away from our eyes, except when we caught them by surprise, filled our home with sadness. The most painful part of it was their silence. A firewall that prevented us from knowing the worst of it. Both our parents died in 1982. It was only then that I found out the reason for their heavy sorrows. As a young woman, Mom was in love with a young anglophone protestant. Her family and the village’s priest forbade her from marrying him, however, so she had to break up with the love of her life. My grandfather had nine daughters to marry. When he met the one who would become my father, he believed him to be a good man, clean, well dressed, someone who worked hard and, above all, was head over heels with his daughter, whose heart was shattered. Her father insisted, and my mother married my father. She lived a sad and melancholy life for the most part after their union. Very quickly after their wedding, she developed a severe form of eczema that ate away at her hands. My Dad, on the other hand, turned out to be the best of men, courageous, responsible and so completely enamoured with his frigid wife that the old men of the village would make fun of him. I’ll end this letter by admitting to you that I didn’t do any better in matrimonial affairs. A hardened divorcee, I’m still looking for the balm that might soothe my wounds. I was also forced into marriage and I too put a dark veil over the lives of my young children by remaining in a marriage without love or affection. But I have hope. I have a lot of hope in my grandchildren who I’m certain will know how to liberate themselves from their ancestors’ misfortunes and build their own happiness as they wish. Cora ❤️

For this letter, I’m going to snuggle up with the past and cherish the memory of a precious afternoon in the park with Paul. I was 27 and had been married to horrible Husband for 7 years. Paul was finishing his PhD in aerospace engineering. We bumped into each other by chance at a library I’d sometimes visit to read, safe from my in-laws’ prying eyes. I’d read in secret in defiance of my husband, who forbade me to read and write. Hardened into a mould by his military success and consumed by hubris, he was a few centuries behind civilization in the way he thought. He lacked respect, kindness and true love. I hid from him to try to survive with a bit of normalcy. When I saw Paul walking towards my table, my heart immediately started to tremble. Before that moment in the library, we’d last seen each other during our teen years at a huge bonfire party. Paul wasn’t a close friend; we’d played tennis together occasionally in the city where we lived. I was too young and too naïve to understand the electrifying sensation we’d experience when we picked up a ball together or shook hands like pros at the end of a match. I must’ve been 15 or 16, ignorant and troubled when I felt this young man’s gaze on me. More than a decade later, the only thing I remembered when Paul locked his eyes on mine in the library was that bonfire, organized by the town at summer’s end. All I had left from that evening was a brief recollection of his gaze fixed on me through the fiery flames. We were sitting around the fire, across from each other. It felt as if something inside of me was burning like a log in those flames. Was it my head or my heart? During the many years that followed, I wanted to feel the warmth of this fire again, even if for just a second. Seated at the table in the library, my hands could hardly hold my book. Did Paul recognize me? He suddenly pushed his chair back, stood up and started walking towards me. He let out a sublime “You’re more beautiful than ever!” I thought I was going to faint; my legs sunk into quicksand and my heart leapt from my chest. You must understand that, at that moment in my life, the woman seated in that library was in total ruins, incapable of responding to the incredible sweetness before her. My lips were quivering, unable to utter a single word. “Do you feel like going for a walk in the park?” Paul asked. I followed him, stammering. He casually took my arm as we crossed the street and that electrifying sensation seemed to go through our bodies, like it used to. He must’ve felt it too because he hurried to tell me that he was engaged to an actress. The news only added to my turmoil of walking beside him. Paul was now a man and a splendid person. As handsome as my Doctor Zhivago! Holding my head high, I followed him towards the lake, doing the best I could to keep my eyes from releasing an ocean of sorrow. My wedded life was slowly killing me. I was a prisoner to horrible Husband and my beloved children, who only had me to love. My babies fed me with spoonfuls of young love. Their smiles kept me alive. We sat at a distance on a long park bench. Paul consoled me without even knowing it by telling me that he’d looked for me for a long time. He had no idea that I had also pursued my intellectual interests. He didn’t know that I’d been forced to marry the father of an unplanned child and that I’d given birth to two more after the wedding. As if he’d felt my sorrow, Paul grabbed my hand. He told me once more how beautiful he thought I was and how his young man’s heart would sigh each time he’d think of me during those many years. Although he’d made a point to quickly inform me he was engaged, he was thoughtful enough to avoid telling me about his fiancée. I simply learned that they’d be moving to the United States for better career prospects. I was glad everything was working out for him. I had to leave soon to go get the kids at school. Paul asked me for my address, but I refused to give it to him. On the bus ride to pick up my children, my heart was brave. I understood that Paul had liked me, even if it had only been for one summer afternoon. He was interested in me, both then and now. Contrary to the way Husband treated me, Paul had complimented me, admitting that he found me to be even more beautiful than the innocent young girl I once was. Cora ❤️

My firstborn’s fingers are stained in bright colours. He struggles, painting all day long, to find the right shade that will put his torments to rest. Sometimes, he sends me a picture of a painting darker than an impenetrable obscurity and asks me if I see a dragon. Maybe a pilgrim lost in the woods? Or a drifting boat? My first son is an artist. He sees things before they even exist. My eldest can spend an entire week shaping the swell of a choppy sea, caressing every wave that breaks or crashes on the shore. He has the patience of a Buddhist monk as he plays with 10 shades of blue. I observe, sometimes up to several months, as his sketch evolves. We have this in common: the draft, or rough outline, a still imperfect form we give our work. The drafts of my letters and his drawings are very similar – both adventuring towards a beginning. An ephemeral title to start, a preliminary layer of colour or a series of spun sentences, locked under a mountain of doubt and hesitation. Stringing words together isn’t as messy as painting, but it takes longer for meaning to emerge. Like undisciplined kids in a schoolyard, subjects, verbs and adverbs have to wait for the bell to ring to move in a straight line. Recess often lasts for a few days in my head. Sentences lurch and sway on a slippery skating rink. I wait, suffer and doubt my talent. I implore creativity to come to my rescue. You and I, dear son, began our artistic careers late in life. With our white heads as furious as a snowstorm, we don’t need to know who we are or to divine the destination before leaping. We love to create, blending red with blue to create purple. We harness all that inspires us; simple truths, books, masterpieces, inspiring quotes, conversations with our friends, dreams and words whispered to our souls at night. Let’s have a little fun with Picasso and pretend we’re as good as him! Let’s use what feeds us and gives us reason to believe we’re making progress. Let’s trust in Lady Inspiration, the lifeline that feeds the canvas and the text. The artist, my dear son, takes their measure and worth by working, praying, striking the keyboard and caressing the same landscape a thousand times. They experiment, practice and wade through the sketches of the masters, imitating this and that until they discover their own individual artistry. It’s by failing to do justice to the original that we often discover our own path. Let’s build our own universe with a few trusty carrier pigeons resting on our windows. Let’s share letters, text messages, photos, wild ideas, unusual colours and divine inspiration. And let’s get some fresh air. Inhale long and deep. The brain gets sleepy when it stays in its usual place. Distance and unfamiliar scenery stimulate the imagination. Apparently, even bad weather can flame the artistic fire. Embrace austerity, dear son, because all belongings are an obstacle to creativity. Have confidence in your work, in the magical, indescribable moment when a brushstroke illuminates your painting. Savour this microsecond when you feel bliss, astonishment and wonder; the moment when all the forces of the universe converge to reveal to you what is hidden to others. Know that this moment of euphoria is like a drug; once we’ve tasted it, we spend forever trying to recapture the fleeting jubilation. You likely know already that creativity is 95% hard work and 5% magical inspiration. Creativity is a set of skills that we can master if we put our minds to it. I type on my keyboard for hours on end, trying to link together a breathtaking sentence. I hope and pray; begging the muses and writing’s grace. Dear son, I wish to encounter that rare moment of genius too, when unpredictability opens the door to possibility. Isn’t it what we’re both experiencing? You’re painting the picture you’d like to hang in your living room. I’ve published the book I wanted to read. The wise ones say that it’s never too late. And I, your mother, will search for the black eagle hidden beneath your bright colours until my very last breath. Cora ♥️

I’ve already shared with you that I dreamt of becoming a writer when I was young. Life’s rough hands tore my dream from me and shut it away for the longest time. Today, as an old woman, writing brings me the most pleasure. I write to share my experience, my secrets and my long life. I write to sow a little love and to reap a lot. I write mostly because I can’t do otherwise. I type tirelessly on my iPad to learn how to love myself and to discover who I am. I write to surprise myself with all the small revelations that emerge, secrets buried deep within me. I write to woo life’s impenetrability and breathe a little hope into my battered heart. I write to uproot the worst and slay it. I write to trace my life, so I don’t forget the little things and convince myself that my life until now hasn’t been in vain. I do it to try and figure out what might happen to me. I mostly write to avoid the sleepiness of my consciousness. Words are little pick-me-ups that, with any luck, will keep my ink busy for years to come. I lay my words out on the paper for my own pleasure and that of those who read me. Writing allows me to express myself and display my dreams. I sometimes take myself for a relentless creator, imagining worlds, surreal situations and scenarios, and giving birth to characters. Yet the stories that come to life at my fingertips often turn out to be true. Most of the time, I write to expel the unspeakable, well-hidden truth. I darken pages to dream and to strengthen my imagination. I don’t know how to dance or sing any better than I can flirt or love. I console myself believing that my last magical power stems in a nicely crafted sentence I’ve strung together. Could my writing add something that wasn’t already part of this world? A wreath of flowers, a four-leaf clover, a wise crow, my heart on its knees. My sentences are empty of meaning but filled with poetry. My head is a circus and the stories I tell help me survive. Writing in a coffee shop or sitting at my large kitchen table, I type, amuse myself and weave a story. I write to shout that my heart still has so much love to give. I write to embrace my solitude, lighten my sadness and dull my useless anguish. I flee the desert of the blank page to distract myself with the unruliness of words. I write to imagine paradise and its great golden door. I write to think out loud about the mysteries of the universe and tame the indecipherable. With each new dawn, I rejoice. I turn on the lamp and write for about an hour in my bed. Fighting the vertigo that comes with still being alive, I imagine my heart purring with love. I write to chase away my old sorrows, heal from the scratches of time and to save my story from erasure. I pick up the pen to tease forth inspiration, counter the dullness of the everyday and to keep my 10 fingers from going numb. I sometimes bury my sorrow deep within the page. I write to honour inspiration’s muse, stimulate my creative hemisphere and enjoy the tremendous happiness writing fills me with. I write to express my emotions and, mostly, my obsessions. I write to catch up on a life that is slipping away too quickly. I write to make the most of my originality as a human being. I write to open myself to wonder. I write to learn how to live without working. I write to learn how to become a good person. I write so that I don’t cry. I write to befriend the reaper. Dear readers, might you have a few good reasons to write too? Cora ❤️

The body in which I inhabit is starting to frighten me. Has it reached the maximum number of times it can regenerate its cells? Are they functioning at a slower pace now that they’re almost 78? Like my memory, and my legs, which, once quick and athletic, vaulted me high over poles. They even propelled me to the top of the podium at an intercollegiate pole vault competition in Montreal. I can still see them – long, thin and agile, jumping into the air. When I see pretty faces aging behind my television screen, I freeze. My gaze fixed on the plasma, I touch my deflated cheeks, my wrinkling lips and my eyes, receding into my skull. In my opinion, one of the most elegant words reserved for elderly people is “mature.” Think about it for a moment. A state of peak existence, not decrepitude. I have a habit of eating apples constantly. I buy so many that sometimes they start to shrivel before I’ve had the chance to bite into one. Almost imperceptibly, the flesh of the forbidden fruit dries, sags and atrophies, its skin becoming flaccid. Even if its flesh remains enjoyable for human consumption, the envelope has deteriorated. My face is a good approximation of a wizened apple adorned with beautiful, coloured glasses perched on the nose! Thanks to the town’s optician, I can still see the words I write and watch them fly away in the wind. According to what I’ve read on the subject, as the three cutaneous layers lose volume and efficacy a number of effects can be observed: reduced elasticity and essential lipids, lower cutaneous nerve endings and loss of sensitivity. Heaven help me! But the worst part is, which no one expects, the reduction in the number of sweat glands and the atrophy of blood vessels that diminishes the skin’s ability to protect itself from the heat. So, in addition to being less tolerant of the sun’s rays, we wilt more quickly in the heat, even though we no longer sweat like we did in our prime! I’ll never lounge in the sun again! I vividly remember the years as a cook when the heat was unrelenting, thanks to the hot flashes of menopause. In my first small kitchen, I’d break the eggs, flip the crêpes and put up with it. I’d do my best to stifle my sensations and, when an intense hot flash would soak my neck, I’d call my daughter for backup so she could take my place at the griddle for 30 minutes or so. I’d say the code “the tortellini is boiling,” and she knew straight away what to do. Dear reader, I’m sharing this secret code in case it might come in handy! Thank heavens, I can’t see my sagging bottom. My flabby behind is the culprit causing my legs to move slower these days. During the pandemic, I walked a fair share, but since I’ve settled into my morning coffee routine with my friends, my bottom is always parked on a chair. While I type away at the keyboard and pile up drafts, my lower body is losing its agility. My poor old legs even wake me up at night. I must get out of bed and walk for a good 15 minutes around the house until the pain subsides. You know this about me already: I’m crazy about colours. I loved decorating my breakfast dishes with colourful fruit. I enjoy dressing up in bright colours. Why do you think I dress this body that’s about to lose the battle against age in an array of hues? When you turn on your screen to read my letters, don’t you notice the energizing colours and the beautiful brooches I wear like badges of strength and courage? Before we pack our bags to leave, let’s thank our old wobbly shells for taking us this far and congratulate ourselves for living. For many, the slow decay of aging is worse for worrying about it; as if a pink-horned devil blamed all the world’s pain on age. Moustaches spring from discarded carrots, and sprouts strut their stuff on the noggin of overripe potatoes. In my book, age doesn’t have an age, but aging, although it displeases me, is inevitable. Que sera, sera! This morning, I wanted to poke fun at this mortal shell that seems so precious. We have to treat it with care to help it last as long as possible, but for the rest, it’s just an ornate Buddha decorating our lives and our little palaces. Our true nature is invisible to the naked eye. Like a miraculous sap that feeds us, shapes us and sets us apart. This true nature shines like a light inside us; it’s our duty to keep this flame alive. I’m aging, dwindling, weakening; I’m dying terribly slowly, in small steps. Toes and fingers climbing on top of one another trying to escape their fate. My memory is a sieve that has allowed the provocateurs that once tripped my temper to escape. My old heart, almost as empty as a church, still hopes to fulfill a few desires yet. Old, tired and clumsy servants, my hands still prefer to WRITE. They insist on telling my story. More than all the gold, myrrh and incense, these precious hands have no desire to return to dust. Cora ♥️

Might I find a gallant man here on earth, amiable and kind, like Grandpa Frédéric? Dear Grandpa, how I loved him! I helped him harvest the hay, dig up potatoes and pick corn and hazelnuts at summer’s end. When my mom’s eczema flared up, Grandpa would often take us to school. He was there for us too when our parents fought. Could I have fallen for a man who had all my grandfather’s virtues? In the blink of an eye! Today, the men who might stand by me are as old as I. They don’t pretend to be 30 or even 50. I secretly watch them every morning at the coffee shop, examining and comparing their attributes. I try to convince myself that the friendship we’ve built through all our mornings together is much stronger than love’s embrace. My faithful friends will very likely notice my lapses in judgment; hopefully they’ll show me leniency. Even a woman as bold as I occasionally jumps the rails and strays from common sense. Drunk love is tempting at any age, dear readers! When Natasha, my professional matchmaker, informs me there’s one last chocolate left on the plate, I’m tempted to cancel the entire thing. This lovers’ posturing annoys, irritates, horrifies and exasperates me. Dring, dring! – “Hello, Mr. Renato. How are you? Natasha insists that you and I have a little talk before we meet in person.” – “Va bene,” I hear the man with the Italian accent murmur. – “Do you still work? Forgive my rudeness, but how old are you?” – “Bambini celebrate 75, on Sunday,” he replies in his charming broken French. – “May I ask where you live?” –  “Condo, but want to find good woman for villa in Italy and house in Florida.” He goes on, but the man of a few words fails to pique my curiosity. I’m not even tempted to meet him. But Natasha the matchmaker insists on doing her job until the end, so she plans a lunch meeting for us in a popular pizzeria at Marché Central, not too far from the suitor’s condo. And I say YES! Certainly not because I want to see his face or condo, but because I love the restaurant Natasha picked: Pizzeria Giulietta. And so, as agreed, three days later, I’m at the pizzeria at noon sharp. I take off my jacket and order a tall latte to warm up. When my date arrives, I realize he’s as short as his French vocabulary and, for my taste, short too on physical charms. I want to leave, but I remain calm. The man removes his overcoat, which is tailor-made I’m sure, and an attentive waiter helps him get settled at the table. He orders an amaretto sour, served with a small bowl of mixed nuts on the house. Could he be a regular at this place? My smiling knight in shining armour tells me the name of the singer we can hear over the speakers as he taps his foot and eats his nuts. – “Not very hungry,” he claims, “but really like songs from my country.” I, on the other hand, suppress the desire to bolt with every bite I take of Giulietta’s excellent pizza. But of course I stay out of politeness. I ask for another hot latte. Some 30 minutes later, I make up an excuse and leave. Outside, the day is fading. Up there, in a purple-blue sky, two small clouds face each other. Could they be in love with one another? What will I do with all the handfuls of “I love you” I’ve been piling up all these years? Turn them into more fudge, jams and Sunday letters? As for my loving heart, broken into a thousand crumbs, I’ll probably have to throw it to the wind for the angels to catch. Cora 💖

Dear readers, I’m improving my writing skills as you continue to read my letters. The whiteness of the blank page is like a sky filled with miracles for me. When I was young, all I wanted was to darken pages with my ink and, today, my golden years afford me the time I need. A smile, a quick peck on the cheek, a sympathetic eye; these days, I write to discover what true love is. Do I have enough time to find a soulmate? How many men and women experience great love? Maybe once, twice or even three times in their lifetime if they’re very, very lucky? Though the first two candidates missed the mark, Natasha, the expert matchmaker I tasked with the mission of finding me the right man, informs me she’s still looking. Does she know how fast time flies? My last few good years are slipping and crumbling away. HELP! WILL I REMAIN AN OLD SPINSTER UNTIL I’M 100? – “Claudia, my dear, she tells me, don’t forget to use your alias!” A third candidate is eager to meet me. After a 30-minute introductory call, I imagine myself on cloud 9. I don’t suffer from any pain, but my date manages an orthopedic company on Montreal’s South Shore that sells all sorts of products to drugstores across Canada – compression socks, lumbar belts, bandages, ankle braces, removable insoles, elastic bandages and corsets of all kinds. Should I break a leg to meet him faster? – “Dear Natasha, when can I meet him?” – “Patience! Your suitor is on a business trip to Chicago right now.” I understand. This man probably leads the same busy lifestyle I used to when I was opening restaurants across Canada. Even if I’d met my handsome Omar Sharif in person, I would’ve been too busy for even a hello! Impatient and a bit annoyed, I feel like I only get to write the beginnings of stories before they disappear in my head as instantly as a bursting soap bubble. It’s noon, I crack three small eggs into a hot frying pan. I sit to eat in front of my iPad, with a piece of bread, a cheese wedge and two slices of ham. Am I really hungry? I think about the businessman again. Will he like my homemade jams, my coloured outfits, my passion for words? A few days later, Natasha tells me that the travelling suitor is back in Montreal and he’d like to have breakfast with me this Saturday. He’d book a table at Leméac, a chic and popular French bistro. – “What do you say, Claudia?” she asks me. – “It’s perfect! I know the place and I’ll be there at 10.” Very early that Saturday morning, I try on so many outfits that it makes my head spin. I try on a red dress that’s perhaps a tad too bold, a pink one that may be too light for autumn and a blue one that’s simply too short. Finally, I opt for light grey pants and a matching sweater. He arrives smartly dressed and as serious as a Pope. He’s booked a table for four right in the middle of the restaurant. – “Nice to meet you, dear Sir. Are you waiting for someone else?” – “I like being comfortable in these busy and over-crowded restaurants. I prefer a large table with plenty of space.” – “Would you have preferred going to the Ritz?” – “It’s all the same. Too ordinary and expensive! At least here, the excellent smoked salmon brings in the guests.” – “I agree! It’s also my favourite dish.” We should get along just fine! But disenchantment quickly sets in when he nearly berates a waiter in training for suggesting red wine instead of white to accompany the fish. He eats his fill in no time and doesn't bother to treat me to dessert. Neither one of us has even finished our glass of wine. Once again, I conclude, I’ve wasted my time. As we exit the restaurant, he invites me to take a short stroll to help digest the meal. Surprised by his suggestion, I nevertheless agree. Fifteen minutes are enough to soothe the curmudgeon’s mood. He throws a few compliments my way and invites me over to his place, a big house on the waterfront, near Montreal. For heaven’s sake, how disappointing! – “The staff have the weekend off, and you can even stay the night if you like,” he dares say. – “No, no! No, thank you!” I’m stunned. A few more steps and he stops. A driver with a white cap opens the back door of a luxury car that I don’t recognize. – “Darling, let’s go for a ride in my brand-new Bentley!” he says to lure me into the backseat of his big, fancy car. I flatly refuse. “No, no!” I remain on the sidewalk for a moment, looking for my Mini. I see it, one block away from the large Bentley. I’m off, almost at a run. I unlock the Mini, open the door, dive in and quickly lock the doors. TO BE CONCLUDED. Cora ❤️

I quickly forgot the matchmaker’s good advice. Would I be recognized at every street corner? It had never even crossed my mind. The former philosophy teacher certainly had the means to treat me to brunch at the Ritz, and that’s just dandy. But a woman like me doesn’t go unnoticed; the matchmaker should’ve warned me to be more discreet, at least in the beginning. – “Yes, Natasha. I should’ve avoided the Ritz and the places I used to go to in my days as a businesswoman so I wouldn’t be recognized.” Public personalities often find it harder to meet people who are genuinely interested in them as a person, rather than in their social life or bank account. If the redhead hadn’t recognized me, with my fictitious name, the maître d’ served my real identity to him on a silver platter. Seated in front of me at the table, this first suitor acted as though he had no idea who I was. A regular at the Ritz himself, he asked me a few basic questions such as “have you ever been married?” “Are you widowed or single, and since when?” “Do you still work?” And so forth. He eventually suggested we move to the hotel bar, adjacent to the lobby, for a digestif. And I accepted! – “Limoncelli, amaretto, cognac, port or Mandarine Napoléon liqueur?” – “I’d really like a third latte, please. I don’t like alcohol very much, but I love coffee!” Comfortably seated on the grand hotel’s new blue couch, the redhead man is talking about travel. He shows me his plane ticket, destination Dubai. Although I’ve had three lattes, my mind and heart dry up. – “When are you leaving,” I ask, to make conversation. – “On Thursday, in exactly 5 days!” he replies enthusiastically. – “When do you get back?” – “I have an open ticket. Maybe it will depend on you!” – “What do you mean?” – “Let’s rent a room and have a bit of fun!” YUCK, YUCK and again, YUCK! HELP! Back at home, I kneel and thank the great Manitou and all their angels for saving me from disgrace. A few days later, I tell Natasha about my breakfast at the Ritz and she blames me for not listening to her warning to keep away from spending too much time in his company. I spent nearly five hours with the handsome Casanova! The matchmaker suggests a second candidate. She cautions me that he’s a very nice man but tremendously miserable. The wife he adored passed almost a year ago and his three daughters, all musicians, insist that their father rekindle his joy for living. Since I’m more familiar with the process now, I agree to meet this second shiny knight. Would these daughters have an orchestra conductor for a father? I can’t wait to hear a bit of music! I take Natasha’s advice and we have an initial telephone conversation. Everything seems to be going well! Not a single false note. I’ll try my luck and meet the next promising candidate in person. To my surprise, I learn that he resides just a dozen kilometres away from me. He texts me the address of a restaurant a good distance away, in Laval. Did his daughters pick the place? I arrive first and look for an inconspicuous table to hide at. A waiter with a long black apron appears and offers me something to drink while I wait for my date. I order a large coffee, with two creams. – “Tell me, young man, where is the washroom?” When I return to the table, an elderly bald man is struggling to stand up to shake my hand. Yet he squeezes my hand so firmly that I’m certain he’ll keep it forever! I immediately get the sense that, in his place, a few tears are instead speaking to me. I try to be nice, but the words coming out of my mouth drown in sorrow. He’s forgotten his reading glasses, and so I read him the menu. He suddenly remembers that during his last visit there with his dear deceased wife, they’d both eaten shepherd’s pie. It’ll be shepherd’s pie for Mr. Bernard, and for me, singlehood until I’m a hundred! TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

The attentive matchmaker insisted that all her candidates were highly desirable. She had found me four men -- a musician, a businessman, a globetrotter and a retired philosophy teacher -- with solid values, compatible ages and were bilingual or even trilingual. – “Wow, Natasha! Do you really think I’ll be up to par?” – “Don’t worry! You’re still attractive. We’ve compiled these four candidates’ answers, and each one could be a suitor for you. Really, you're going to be spoilt for choice.” – “When can I meet them?” People usually purchase insurance in case something bad happens to them. But love, the great, magnificent and forever one, is it truly ever guaranteed? And what about my businesswoman’s small horns I’ve used to doubt, argue, negotiate and monetize? What am I going to do with them? – “Forget your horns and let your heart speak,” replies the matchmaker. “Every woman has the right to find her Prince Charming.” I had found mine at 18. He was so handsome, he’d even appear in my dreams! I could never shake his hand, though, because he was a movie actor on the big screen. When the movie “Doctor Zhivago” came out in 1965, the entire world discovered the beautiful and talented Omar Sharif, the famous actor who played the story’s protagonist. I had watched that love story 20 times over before the horrible ogre butchered my heart. – “Dear Natasha, help me. I have so little experience with love. How can I choose the best man for me?” And then I’m told that I needed to speak to each candidate over the phone first before deciding whether to go any further. – “Don’t forget to use your fictitious name (Claudia) when speaking to each suitor! About 30 or 40 minutes will be enough for introductions.” – “But what do I tell them? That I’m an inexperienced old woman on a quest to find Prince Charming? Tell me, Natasha, are men more decisive, adventurous, capable, enterprising?” How can we know the depths of another’s heart when we have such a hard time opening our own? Ten thousand paths blur the address to true happiness. Will this adventure be worth its weight in gold? What is the matchmaker selling, in fact? Not even the slightest assurance of success! Four telephone conversations with four manly voices; four guaranteed in-person meetings if no one cancels. Each one of them having filled out the same very lengthy questionnaire with over 200 questions. Where do I stand in all this nonsense? Natasha the matchmaker guesses my state of mind and implores me to continue with the program. She can even put me in contact with the first potential Mr. Right this evening. A retired philosophy teacher, the first gentleman caller, describes himself as an avid red-headed sportsman who likes to ski, play golf and tennis, bike and ride horses. Out of breath, my heart falls off the horse just by thinking about it! But I like philosophy. I also like the nice red head I saw in his profile photos. Can this first candidate help me understand Martin Heidegger, the most influential philosopher of the 20th century in my opinion? Natasha suggests I agree to a short meeting in person. Breakfast, a latte at a pastry shop or a walk in the park. “But beware!” she warns me. “It's forbidden to spend an entire day in his company.” Encounters that last too long can lead you to assume too much. The man with the red head suggests we have brunch at the Ritz. I say YES! Why not? I used to go to the Ritz every month for breakfast meetings with other businesswomen. In the long lineup, a very full head of red hair catches my eye. Fear seizes me. I find him too handsome, too young and I’m guessing more intelligent than me. This former philosopher knows by heart all the descendants of the Cro-Magnon man. I become nervous. I’m hungry. I can’t wait to drink my first coffee! And then the maître d’ recognizes me and invites me to sit at one of the best tables reserved for valued guests. Claudio, the hotel’s oldest waiter, greets me with a grin. I hesitate, I glance, I look for the red head. I tell the maître d’ that I’m waiting for someone. The man with the red hair finally joins me at the table. Will he guess who I am? He sits, stares at me and seems to search his memory. – “Dear Cora!” exclaims Claudio. “Don’t you ever age? We haven’t seen you in so long! May I suggest our famous crustless mushroom quiche with leek and goat cheese today. What do you say?” TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

What are single men and women looking for? A presence, a partner, maybe true love? One who listens, the other who waits; a voice that replies yes or maybe no. I have such a hard time imagining someone being constantly at my side. As to whether this mystery person is an encumbrance or a blessing, both imagination and experience fail me. To tell you the truth, I’ve never dated or even flirted. Well, there was that one time at my high-school graduation dance when a handsome, curly-haired fella held out his hand to me. Feeling quite uncomfortable in my brand-new shoes, I had the temerity to tell him I didn’t know how to dance. Femininity, grace, gentleness, subtlety – they’ve never been my strong suit. Perhaps it’s my fault? I was raised with a strict hand and had to marry the terrible philanderer whose child I carried. When he finally departed for his country, I prayed to Thor, the god of thunder, to take hold of me and shake me until I learned how to manage on my own. I became a successful and pioneering businesswoman, yet never took time for myself. Natasha the matchmaker, a pretty young woman whose passion is to make people happy and matched for life, adores her work of pairing up potential lovers. She reassures me that she’ll coach me through the process and dispel any worries, self-doubts or moments of despair, which won’t last long at all I’m told. One brisk morning in October 2021, determined and optimistic, I gulp down my latte at the coffee shop. Don’t you have to want something very badly to accept to swim across a shark-infested river? You have to at least want it enough to honestly fill out an extremely long questionnaire that will become your “profile.” No poetry, prideful adjectives or flourishes allowed. Do I know myself well enough to complete this perilous task? Whatever may come, I promise not to be too severe with myself and remain hopeful despite the visible scratches of old age. “Everybody ages,” is what the sweet and reassuring Natasha tells me. All I truly desire is to meet a good, kind man with a poet’s soul. My lines, his lines – musical notes creating a sweet duet. I know myself so little, like a chain of small volcanoes that erupt, only for despair to come along and extinguish most of them. Like French journalist and author Laure Adler would say, with her heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her nose, “age, that appalling fifth season,” undermines, dislocates and sabotages our peace. What can we hope for when all we can wish for is the end? And yet I wait quietly for a brown, white or black hand to grab onto my arm. Will this endless questionnaire teach me something about myself? Where is that long-awaited being; this soulmate I’ve been waiting for all this time. Will he see a few evergreen branches in my green eyes? Will he like my colourful look and eccentricities? On this October 2021 morning, maybe the man of my dreams is reading his newspaper in an airport somewhere. Or perhaps he’s catching the season’s final few trout at the end of a peer. Dear Natasha promises great candidates; four compatible profiles based on the 200 questions I answered. This man – the man for me, the right one – is probably a character in a novel I have yet to write. TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️