Letter to my dearest Sun

7:30 a.m. at the coffee shop How can I fill this strange and silent morning with words? How can I deconstruct the unusual silence that clutches each table? I sit alone in the sadly deserted coffee shop, waiting for humanity to awaken. Outside the wind blows over the snow and turns it into rivulets of slush. The weakening winter insists on staying awhile. It doesn’t want to make room for spring just yet. Around 9:30, a few sleepwalkers looking for fellow humans enter the café. Their eyes are half closed, their faces downcast and their stomachs empty. They make their way to the pastry counter, trampling the imaginary clouds under their sleepy feet. My fingers wave a few polite “hellos,” but the sleepwalkers don’t notice. When the espresso machine finally ejects its steam, a few of them open their eyes. The thick white foam of their lattes trembles In their clasped hands. The comforting liquid goes down their throats and snaps most of them awake. 10:20 a.m. The coffee shop is getting busier. The staff is all smiles now and 10, 12 hands are moving to and fro behind the counter. At that moment, a strange Earthling in sealskin boots enters and sits at the table next to me. He looks around at the crowd of regulars and asks me how he can order a meal. I hurriedly explain to him in detail how he needs to go to the long sandwich counter, make his selection and then place his order. I readily recommend the generous smoked salmon sandwich on black bread, topped with thinly sliced red onions and a mix of dressed mesclun. Oh, my! The incredibly handsome face of this man from the Great North spins me right around; his almond-shaped eyes are dark and pierce right through me. I look at him while he stands in line in front of the coffee machine; he appears even taller than a superhero. My heart beats faster. My fingers are frozen on the keyboard. They hover over the space bar for so long that they even slice a nicely worded sentence in three. I close the iPad. Where does this ecstatic female suddenly come from? What are these burning cheeks? Where has this racing heart been all her life; these eyes waltzing across the room, these arms stretching as far as the 55th parallel? A pleasant waitress brings the newcomer his meal at the table where he’s seated. He takes off his parka and places his leather mittens under his chair. The man looks straight at me and says “Inuktitut, my language. Am Inuit from Nunavik. My grandparents were living in an igloo.” And so on, so forth, this heavenly Thor of the Great North chews and cobbles his English explaining to me that he came to my village to visit his wife’s parents. — “Because new baby arrived last month.” — “I understand. Congratulations on the baby!” — “Thank you, Ma’am. I now have six children.” My heart, lonely in its desolate Sahara, is getting desperate. For a brief, fragile moment, I had met great beauty, a magnificent face, the man of my dreams. I love beauty, such as Michelangelo’s David, Milo’s armless Venus, Rodin’s Thinker and all the great masterpieces made by human genius. So naturally, I like well-made things and handsome men who are pleasing to the eye. I must say in all honesty this man from the North Pole was particularly splendid. He embodied all the beauty and simplicity of the wind, snow, ice and sun. — “Cawww, what a crush!” my friend the crow would say. — “A total crush!” I would quickly reply. Cora ❤

10:35 a.m. at the head office on Wednesday morning Argh! This morning, I am irritated. I have been waiting for three days for the confirmation of a meeting and nothing is happening. I have checked my text messages and emails every 10 minutes since yesterday. I’m waiting to be contacted by the person I am supposed to meet this week. But I wait in vain. This is a decisive meeting for me; one that will nourish my intellect and mental well-being. This long wait annoys me and distracts me from all other thoughts. I drink two coffees in a row and still NOTHING. Hiding away in my office, I learn the meaning of new words: grumble, gripe and grouch, like a teenager deprived of Netflix. When I finally calm down, all I can think of is writing to you. Yes, dear readers! You are my favourite refuge, my island of happiness where I love to lounge. I still can’t tell you about the purpose of this important meeting, but if the outcome is positive, it will fill my heart with joy; and yours too indirectly. Sometimes I think that I’m too old to rise to new challenges. But then I think of one of my favourite icons, Iris Epfel, and I bury this nonsensical idea of being too old at the bottom of my secret garden. My enthusiasm is revived. Becoming an entrepreneur back in the days served me well. I excelled at what I did and I was fearless. I remember it well. I rushed like a bull into the matador’s red cape in the arena. My cell phone rings twice for something or another, but not for what I was waiting for. I don’t answer. After I calm down, I leave my office, taking you along as I roam the long corridors of the head office. I pour myself a third coffee in the kitchen. Would you like a cup? Did you know? My baptismal name is Marie Antoinette Cora; the name of a very important French queen, the wife of King Louis XVI. A queen who died at 37, guillotined at 12:15 p.m. on October 16, 1793, at Place de la Révolution (now called Place de la Concorde). In those days revolution seethed through the crowds and anything could happen, a queen could even lose her head. Coming from Austria, young and noble Marie-Antoinette arrived at the court of France when she was just 15. From the very beginning of her marriage to future King Louis, heir to the throne, it was obvious she found it hard to adapt to French customs and, once she became queen, she committed more blunders, often unwittingly, which gradually alienated the people and had a disastrous effect on her public image. Poor queen, and happy me, who still has a good number of years ahead! I love life, it’s ups and downs and its many-faceted beauty. Now that all the arteries of life have opened up, maybe you and I could start thinking about new adventures. Pour yourself another coffee, sit down quietly with a notepad and let’s write down a list of all the things we’d like to try before we leave this world. We can start by writing down in no particular order everything that comes to mind, and then we’ll order by priority. The goal is to identify the experiences, wishes, dreams, desires or challenges we’d like to pursue. In other words, let’s create a bucket list. I’ll share my own list with you below. I’ve done it before, during the pandemic, but maybe I am a lot more audacious today? And maybe bucket lists are like smoke detectors: It’s best to check them once in a while. So here’s what I would like to do before my heart extinguishes: 1– Visit Paris, one more time, especially Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Mère Poulard in Mont Saint-Michel and Les Deux Magots, a café where Verlaine and Rimbaud, my favourite poets, once frequented. 2– Go to the opera for the first time in my life because I’ve never taken the time to appreciate the beauty of the human voice before. I made up my mind and I am going. I will see Madam Butterfly in Montreal this spring. It will be a nice gift for my birthday, in May. 3– Visit Sweden and, more specifically, the boutiques of fashion designer Gudrun Sjödén and her collections that are in tune with all of nature’s colours. In another life, I would have loved to have been her neighbour and been employed in her workshops. 4– Visit Iceland, the home country of my favourite writer, Andur Ava Ólafsdóttir, who wrote Miss Iceland and The Greenhouse. To go around the island a few times and admire its spectacular beauty. 5– Find a haiku master and take one of their creativity classes for sheer pleasure and to improve my poetry. 6– And of course, publish a new book or two before my thoughts completely dry up, like an abandoned well. Someone has in fact made me a book offer. I said yes, and now I wait in vain for this darned meeting to be confirmed and I’m just about to run out of patience. It’s the most precious goal on my bucket list. I want to do it and I know I can do it well. RING RING! RING, RING! – “Hello, Madame Cora. I was supposed to confirm our meeting last Monday, but I was at a book fair and completely swamped. The fair’s huge hall was packed and fans waited in long lineups at every kiosk to speak with the authors. I apologize, dear Cora! The good news is that there is a reading boom happening. It’s my third book fair this season and it’s been crazy!” The editor enthusiastically confirms our meeting for Friday morning. Finally I can calm my nerves. People still love reading and apparently they love it more than ever. Perhaps I will get the chance to meet you, dear readers, at one of these book fairs? My heart fills with hope; my life expectancy has just lengthened by a few years. Paradise can wait a little longer. May it wait until all my words have left me. Cora 📚 📖 📚

7:35 a.m. at the coffee shop I write just like I knit, with different coloured wools. I’m careful not to drop any stitches or leave holes in my knitting. I always have an imaginary pattern in mind: a jacket collar or sleeve. I wait for creative inspiration. It sometimes takes its time but it always fills up my blank page in the end. I might write about the man who’s seated next to me, waiting for his wife; or about Carole, whose birthday is today. Humans are lively chatterboxes and it’s relatively easy to knit clothes that will suit them. I listen, I look around and I take notes on my bright screen. Even the smallest bird could understand that I am interested in people or, at the very least, in those who dare to leave their hideaway and have something to say. 8:10 a.m. Lately, I’ve had a vision of a finished novel; one I have typed with my own fingers. I picture it in my mind like a huge belly ready to give birth. In my mind, I hear complete sentences and mismatched chapters in need of fresh air. It feels as though it has been a long pregnancy and I look forward to giving birth. I would like to be in front of a large mirror to be able to see what I am carrying. An angel’s wing? A new way of writing? The sudden burst of beautiful ideas? A primal scream giving a voice to my writing? I rid my mind of all the burdensome memories and live in the everyday moment of life, where luck sows its golden seeds. My hands are empty and I don’t even have a draft in mind. I wait and let spontaneity and creative intuition take their course. 10:04 a.m. A different man arrives at the table next to me, sits down and smiles at me. He politely asks how I’m doing and what I may be writing about. How can I explain to him that I don’t really know? I could tell him that I’m giving birth to a few New Year’s resolutions, but I prefer to keep quiet. I return his smile. He gets up and heads for the counter, where he picks out a pastry. He returns to his table with a coffee mug overflowing with thick, white foam and a fresh raspberry pavé. I congratulate him on his excellent choice of pastry. Fresh raspberries are quite rare in the middle of January. The man smiles at me again and replies that he loves life with a capital L. How amazing! This type of invigorating encounter is one of the reasons why I get out of the house. His name, G. Ladouceur, suits him to perfection. In French, “G. Ladouceur” sounds like “I have sweetness” or “I have softness.” He spent his life working for the bank Desjardins, happy like a king in his court. He’s been retired for 10 years and cares for his mother. In his spare time, he builds, paints and varnishes cute little goldfinches, blue jays and ruby-throated hummingbirds, which he offers as gifts. He enjoys travelling south. He’s been to Cuba more than 15 times! –“Yuck! The food is horrible there,” I hear the old me say in my head. Mr. Ladouceur goes on and tells me he’ll be leaving the Quebec winter behind in a week to spend two full months at the Paseo el Prado hotel, in Havana. –“Incredible!” replies the new me, as gentle as a domesticated rabbit. Adios, amigo! 11:08 a.m. I enjoy writing in a coffee shop. I don’t really understand why or how, but I’m certain that being surrounded by people helps me concentrate. I often get the feeling I am sitting in a translucent bubble, sheltered from discordant noise. I love the mornings I spend writing while finishing two or three coffees. I rarely eat before I finish a letter, unless I skipped dinner the night before. When my stomach starts to rumble, I usually polish off a cheese croissant while typing away and then “case closed,” like my 10-year-old granddaughter would say. 12:05 p.m. This morning, asleep in the dawn’s cold light, I dreamt about this infant book growing in my womb. In the dream, I caressed each and every single one of its pages; I turned them, taking extra care not to hurry the paragraphs or weigh them down unnecessarily with incongruous adverbs. The text needs to breathe and drink in the meaning of each word. I also had to think about the accuracy of the chapter titles; gently harmonizing each story with the veracity of its twists and turns. A chapter cannot look like an out-of-season vegetable soup or overcooked pasta au gratin. The backbone of a text can’t lose its poise or waltz aimlessly from left to right. The direction must be as straight and solid as the Eiffel Tower. I climbed it myself and I can attest to its solidity. 12:10 p.m. “I eat my hand and save the other one for tomorrow.” It’s a local expression that is especially timely because I’m famished! They opened a McDonald’s in my town, right in front of a grocery store and kitty corner to a drugstore. When I went past this McDonald’s the other day I was reminded of the times I brought my kids there for birthday meals. I take it as a hint to make a sort of pilgrimage to the golden arches in honour of these happy times that I remember so well. The kids would each order a Big Mac, fries and soft drink; I would always get the Filet-O-Fish with tartar sauce, fries and cola. 12:35 p.m. I walk into our local McDonald’s suffering pangs of hunger. It’s not very busy for a lunch hour. To order, I pretty much have to tap my own selection on one of the large computer screens. I get it wrong a few times and a very young lad offers to put my order in for me. I don’t take the fries, but I order my Filet-O-Fish, the one with two filets, and a cola. It is totally delicious! The open kitchen is now occupied by young teenagers at work, something that was utterlyunthinkable at the time we came here to eat here (1975-1980). So, dear readers, I thoroughly enjoyed my lunch and I will go back soon for another delicious, lightly breaded fish burger served in a gently steamed bun with a tasty tartar sauce. It’s so good it’s hard not to lick your fingers! Cora ❤

8:10 a.m. at the coffee shop There is no other way to put it — I’m in love with a Frenchman. And not just any Frenchman! Journalist, writer and literary critique, BERNARD PIVOT (born on May 5, 1935) is famous for his cultural talk shows, interviews with other writers and his clear and literary manner of speaking. I just love hearing what he has to say, especially since he retired and devotes his time to writing about his daily life and its ups and downs. Bernard, who’s part of a close crew of brilliant elderly men, celebrates his nearly 87 years of life. I imagine he’s as funny as he is serious when he describes in detail the unwanted appearance of symptoms of his degeneration. An intellectual who probably browses his specialized dictionaries while enjoying a fine glass of red wine. I recently finished reading his most recent book, Mais la vie continue (“But life goes on”), and I thoroughly enjoyed it. So much, in fact, that I want to share with you, dear readers, the last chapter in which the serious patriarch enumerates 7 pledges on which he wants to build his final years and remember for as long as possible. I have the firm intention of honouring each of these commitments myself so I will list them for you here: 1 – Never complain. 2 – Be in a good mood, as much as possible. 3 – Nurture my curiosity, read, keep an inquiring mind and learn. 4 – Do not isolate myself; talking with others is proof of vitality. 5 – Reap the benefits of old age. 6 – Add to my life, enrich it and make it better. 7 – Dream with eyes wide open, desire and plan for the future. I consider these life pledges like the best gift I’ve ever received. Think about it for a minute! Time goes by so fast and everyday life is demanding. We generally don’t have time to reflect upon our well-being. 1– Complaining is like dropping a pot of soup: It serves no purpose at all and we are stuck cleaning the mess it created, inside and out. 2– Mumbling and arguing hardens the heart and gets it used to never being satisfied. It’s no use and people usually steer clear of grumps. 3– Humans have wanted to learn more, be better informed, entertain themselves and read since they invented writing. If we don’t uphold our curiosity as we age, it’s as though we take home the ugliest and dullest Halloween pumpkin. People think it’s rotten and quickly lose interest in it. 4– Old folks who no longer care to mingle can easily become isolated. They become like turtles hiding with their heads under their shells. They have a hard time socializing and slowly lose their vitality. 5– Some seniors live like garlic braids, all dried up and hidden away in a pantry. They are so terrified of loosening up the purse strings that they remain tightly braided, clinging to their precious habits. They don’t take advantage of what old age has to offer, and even their loved ones distance themselves from them. 6– A jaded, boring elderly is like a soufflé without egg whites. They don’t marvel at anything, never share anything new or learn from their close ones. They remain isolated in their cocoon. Nobody wants to enrich their life. 7 – Dreaming with eyes wide open is characteristic of all human beings. As we age, however, we tend to believe we are too old to keep dreaming of new adventures and travels or to go after our heart’s desires. How wrong! At our venerable age, it is now or never. I will certainly go back to Gaspésie this summer. I will stay there even longer, take pictures, talk with the locals and go deep-sea fishing. What about you, dear readers? What will you do to bring a little extraordinary into the ordinary of everyday life? What will you do to honour the life pledges of dear BERNARD PIVOT?? Will you court a friendly neighbour? Flirt with an old flame? Or will you register for a cooking class? Maybe learn Spanish? Walk a few steps towards the Camino? Take off on a cruise or grab a pen to immortalize your life? Maybe that’s what it means to “dream with eyes wide open.” Try new things. Wear light-pink clothes in the dead of winter and adorn a collar with flowers. Learn how to play a new musical instrument. Sleep during the day when tired or spend an entire night binge-watching a series on Netflix. Let’s stop our incessant train of thought for a moment and reflect. Let’s jot down what matters the most to us and allow our inner voice to speak. Let’s forget the past and focus on the future. These days, age is my “free pass.” If I add a nice cane to it, I can go anywhere. I’m telling you! I’ve already begun. I started travelling across our beautiful country once again, reprising my role as the Founder of Cora restaurants. And I love these short trips. I’m the luckiest of the lucky for being loved by so many Canadians: franchise owners, restaurant employees, loyal customers and you, my very dear readers, who keep me youthful and passionate about writing. Cora ❤

7:40 a.m. at the coffee shop I sit at my usual table and beg Lady Inspiration to send me a juicy story. I sit, waiting in vain for ideas to transform into words that I will shape into full sentences, and stare at the coffee shop’s black ceiling, from which huge black lamps are suspended above the pastry counters. I sit and wait. I wait for countless phrases to drop from a cloud and land on my white page. I’m not worried. I am confident they will come to me. There is certain magnetism and the words never stray away from my ink for long. I imagine the words stuck deep in the snow or spinning on black ice. I go get myself a second coffee. The girls at the counter smile at me. The youngest one dares to ask what I am writing about today. “About nothing,” is what I reply; about an invertebrate ghost capable of going through a door. I sit and wait while inspiration takes its sweet time to come to me. And here comes Claude, my friend, the bush pilot. He walks into the café and heads straight for my table. He quickly sits down to tell me about a miracle he just experienced, during one of his flights last week, just before the snowstorm. He was taking aerial pictures of the Îles-Laval shores for the town when, all of a sudden, he saw his mother sitting next to him in the plane’s small cockpit. She had passed a few weeks earlier and wanted to reassure her son about her death, to tell him just how magnificent the after world is and that what we call death is “merely a passage into another form, another life, on another frequency.” — “WOW! Your mother appeared before you?” — “Yes, exactly like I see you now.” — “Are you sure these are the exact words she told you?” — “One hundred percent certain. My mother was a school teacher who fiddled with words all her life. She used to write on occasion and she read a lot. She knew everything about death and was looking forward to it.” — “I have read about death quite a bit myself, dear Claude. Mostly about the passage from life to death. Those words your mother told you, they are almost the exact same words doctor Elisabeth Kübler-Ross (1926-2004) published in her famous book On Death and Dying.” — “My mother was familiar with the writings of Dr. Kübler-Ross. She knew that she had been challenged by the establishment in her day. The theory at the time believed that “there could be no life after death, since according to materialism, a person and their body, composed of atoms and energy, are one and the same, so that with the death of the body their soul and therefore their entire existence comes to an end.” — “Precisely,” says Claude. According to the doctor, who spent more than 20 years at the bedside of the dying, “death is unique. It is the most beautiful experience you will have; liberating, without fear or distress.” — “And it’s with those words, dear friend, that my mother shared her passage to the other shore. And I am not surprised one bit because she was ready. She knew death is not the end, but a new beginning. She appeared before me to encourage me not to be afraid. She even told me that I would have a better plane in my next life; that I would stop aging and that I would be happy and content every day.” — “WOW! Claude. What a great gift you are giving me today! Before you arrived, I was waiting for inspiration to come to me, and here you are, with a story about an afterlife that is eternally wonderful. Did you know, my friend, that death figures prominently in my Sunday letters? I talk about death so often to my readers, perhaps a little too often for their liking. But death is an inevitable reality; as real as the date on a birth certificate. I’m about to make the next shore myself. “There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous,” as Charles Baudelaire wrote in his Invitation to the Voyage, in 1857. 10:26 a.m. In my last hour, I am certain that a huge bird, a wandering albatross, will carry my sleeping remains on its huge, kind wings. We will move forward on great winds, crossing the vast seas and brushing the snowy peaks of the highest mountains. We will fly through a few clouds, caress century-old trees and drink water from the meadows of praying sunflowers. We will land in a bay at sunset where the water is crystal clear. My eyes will open upon touching the water. My heart will start beating again and a new life will welcome me with open arms. Cora ❤

Daily courage is like the tracks of a bird in the snow: We barely notice them. Yet the determined animal moves forward into adversity. And it is so for every small daily gesture we do to improve our situation. The art of change moves at a snail’s pace. We make many resolutions every New Year, and we promise ourselves that we will enrich our lives and increase our personal daily happiness score. We feel pressured to drastically change our behaviour and improve our lives when, in fact, change happens imperceptibly through tiny transformations that take place each day. The art of self-improvement is a new lifestyle that we could aptly call “DAILY COURAGE.” The desire for self-improvement is not always enough. It requires time and courage; thousands of small, generous actions that make us better. Change doesn’t happen in a flash. It takes time. All my life I have wanted to become a better version of myself. I wanted to be more empathic, flexible and caring, more open-minded, more generous with my time and a better listener to those around me. While I was running the business, I was usually moving full-steam ahead, paying no attention to my colleagues’ comments. I was so fixated on my own ideas that I would have climbed Mount Everest just to prove I was right. Fortunately, old age and retirement were waiting for me. I was forced to slow down a great deal and mellow. I am able to quickly grasp anything that can improve my condition, my character and my way of life. The wrinkles that come with age swiftly chastened my pride and desire to please. And DAILY COURAGE became my hero; the one who knows that it’s the first step that truly matters when we want to change the course of events and reshape our lives, whether this means changing our behaviour, friends, a job, spouse, city, home or a country. The simple act of questioning the way we live our life and how we are spending our time is an act of great courage on its own. Questioning what is most important to us, revisiting our desires, our ambitions and the imaginary bucket list that we had once filled up to the brim. Never saying never is another daily act of courage, like leaving the front door open at night. Daring to face a recurring dream. Daring to go up the steps as the main actor in our life. It takes courage to pursue one’s desires, to move lightly like a bird over the frozen snow. Perhaps you’re a school teacher who dreams of becoming a yoga teacher or a young accountant fascinated with mechanics. Accepting to change one’s life in the name of more happiness every day is very courageous. Accepting to age gracefully is also an act of courage, almost as important as accepting to seek the therapy necessary for your well-being. Many think that old people are like colourless sauerkraut, to be simply placed back in the fridge for the next day. My heart cries when I meet them. Seeing them in such a state makes me want to scream at the municipal authorities to open up schools to the old and wise who are dying of boredom, each with a life of learning to share. They would benefit greatly like I have from telling their stories, and in turn, it would benefit us. To be courageous is also to face one’s biggest sorrows. It also means accepting the mistakes we have made. I think of my decision to marry a man I didn’t love because I wanted my unborn child to have a father. I remember like it was yesterday. Seated around the kitchen table, my parents were encouraging me to keep the baby and not have the abortion that the man I ended up marrying wanted me to get. The hatred I had for this incompetent father damaged my heart for far too long. Many other wounds still live in my mind despite my valiant attempts to forget them. I deeply regret my mistakes. I wish I had never lost my innocence; if only I had known then what I know today. Courage, in my opinion, is the most important word in our vocabulary and the one that, in our final days, asks us if we feel we have lived our lives to the fullest. I have so many desires to fulfill! You know me: I’m greedy for life and I want to die completely spent, having used up all my talents. Of course I want to live for a long time and make the most of my remaining capacity to be amazed. I dream of winning back my youthful heart by experiencing new things such as travelling, visiting the great museums, going to the opera for the first time, dipping my toes in the warm waters of Iceland, taking up drawing again and sketching portraits, going back to Japan and seeing my great-grandkids off on their first day of school. On certain nights, I dream of reliving my twenties, registering for university and completing my literary studies. I dream of being better, and courage encourages me. I still love living, and I love writing – a passion that mercifully rejuvenates me! Day and night, I invent magical spaces papered in infinite white. My writings are like roads in disarray, disparate wishes happily putting out fires and muffling the noise of human sorrows. In each of my letters, dear readers, a rosary of intentions implores peace in your hearts. I promise you: until the day the red ink dries in my veins, I will not stop putting my words to paper. Cora ❤

7:32 a.m. at the coffee shop This morning, the snowy landscape looks like it has been punched between the eyes. The muddy parking lot, covered in black patches, resembles the swollen surface of a bruised face. Even we, the first customers of the day, have stained the coffee shop’s light grey floor. Outside the cold is weakening, the balcony is releasing large droplets and the massive icicles, hanging from the building’s ledges, are falling to their earthly end. Increasingly faced with climatic uncertainties, my eyes seem to be the only things able to hold back tears. And they even manage to stay dry as I read the sad news on the pages of the LE DEVOIR newspaper. The pictures of 12 people appear in the obituaries: eight men and four women. Usually there are only four or six pictures. I’m always surprised – happy almost – to realize that two-thirds of the deceased are older than me. I’m sure I’ve told you before: every Saturday morning, I fill up the tank at the village gas station where I buy several newspapers. I go through them from front to back: the international news, the war in Ukraine, opinions, the situation in Canadian hospitals, the life and entertainment sections, and the painful obituary section. I am very interested in knowing at what age people pass. I read each departed’s short biography and note the points that interest me: year of birth, age of death, marital status, professional occupation and place of death. Sometimes I cry from fear because the deceased are so close to me in age. And quite often I rejoice because they are much older than I am. And so today, the four women who have passed did so at 77, 85, 95 and 99. The eight men who joined them were respectively 73, 75, 80, 83, 88, 93, 96 and 99. It certainly doesn’t mean that more men than women die or that I still have 24 great years ahead of me. The important question might be, do men age faster than women? Have you ever thought about that? — “Google, help me.” The device promptly answers me: According to the Harvard Health Blog, “57% of all those ages 65 and older are female. By age 85, 67% are women. The average lifespan is about 5 years longer for women than men in the U.S., and about 7 years longer worldwide,” and so on and so forth. It is apparently true in many other mammal species. I find out, through another query that apparently the “microscopic structures” that supply energy to our cells are better adapted to the female body. Thus, the mother passes on these structures to her offspring, but natural selection determines whether they support the body, in the case of females, or not, in the case of males. — “YUCK!” I wonder what my granddaughter (21), who’s finishing university in the spring, would have to say about that. I know she wants to study the human condition further, and I’ll be sure to ask her about this tricky topic. I stare at the sun through the bay window and I know it’s only trying to fool us, to make us believe that the dandelions will blanket our lawns tomorrow. When I walk out of the coffee shop, I notice that the parking lot is full with cross-country skiers eager to be sliding over the snow-covered bike path located behind the shop. I consider myself lucky to be able to admire all these happy faces enjoying their outdoor pursuit. I put on skis once in my life and I managed to lose one of them on my third time down the slopes. I put an end to this winter activity after that, and life continued on. Noon I’m always a little hungry after a morning spent writing, especially when I barely eat dinner the night before. I thaw out a small portion of turkey noodle soup, made frugally with the remains of the Christmas bird that adorned the table not so long ago. There were 22 of us seated like ogres around two long tables placed end to end across my large kitchen. My daughter volunteered to put out all the food on the counters, heat the dishes on my 8-burner stove, place the tourtières in the warm oven and stir the meatballs simmering in the pork stew. What a blessing it was to finally be reunited again for our usual Christmas dinner! We are not the kind of people who celebrate at every turn, but I hope Christmas once again becomes a gathering none of us would miss. Cora ❤

7:30 a.m. on my way to the coffee shop This morning, as I left the house, I was instantly dazzled by the splendid wintry sight: A thick fog made the sky seem like it had transformed into a grand white ballroom where large snowflakes waltzed with magnificent partners dressed in white linen crinolines. I stopped the car halfway down the hill to the main road. On my right, the branches of a beautiful pine tree were decorated in huge snowy meringues. With my foot on the brakes, I searched for my cell phone to take pictures of this extraordinary sight. Click, click, click. Winter has never been as beautiful as it is today. I’m telling you! It’s even more beautiful than in the famous sleigh ride with Doctor Zhivago (played by Omar Sharif) and his lover, Lara (Julie Christie). The eponymous movie was produced by David Lean and adapted from a novel by Boris Pasternak. I was 18 when it came out in movie theatres in 1965 and I still remember each detail from this incredible love story. I can still hear, as I write today, the immortal soundtrack from the movie and strains of Lara’s Theme, composed by Maurice Jarre. Go to YOUTUBE and listen to it! It’s as beautiful as the most beautiful snowstorm. I drive towards the coffee shop with my four wheels tightly gripping Highway 117. Will the coffee shop be open? I live nearby, maybe just five or six streets away. I drive at a snail’s pace and I can’t help but notice the dozen or so workers playing like kids with their big trucks, clearing the sidewalks of snow. I see their rosy cheeks and big smiles through the foggy windshields. I’m certain they’re enjoying some youthful levity. And to think they are getting paid for having this much winter fun! The snow removal company that used to do my driveway closed its doors last year. I liked them a lot, especially the man who shovelled my porch and kept the space in front of the two garage doors clear all winter long. It’s natural to get a little worried when you need to find a replacement for someone who was good at their job. It’s as stressful as replacing a vice-president of finance. You simply need to calm down and put your faith in others. After all, no one wants to do a bad job, especially those who spend the entire winter in the cold, in storms even, and very often with half-frozen fingers. 7:58 a.m. The coffee shop is almost empty when I finally get there, with the exception of four employees hanging around the counter where the pastries are kept. Upon seeing me, two of them make a start for the coffee machine to make me a latte. This place is magical. I always sit at the same table unless someone who’s not a regular gets there before me. It doesn’t happen very often because I’m usually the first one to arrive. Not this morning, however. Sometimes I think of drawing a map of my life with the names of all those who are dear to me printed in white lettering on green signs outlined in white, just like the names of the villages in my native GASPÉSIE. Isn’t each person a village unto themselves, with a story to tell, talents to be discovered and landscapes to admire? I would also plant fluorescent signs in the ground announcing all the “good” advice I never listened to; the speed limits that once made me impatient; the yesses that should have been nos; and the nos that should have been yesses. I would write inspiring quotes in pink calligraphy to display in parks, in schoolyards and around university campuses. On major commercial streets, I would write “STOP BUYING STUFF” on big red panels. Isn’t unnecessary consumption the biggest expense in a household, particularly now? 9:15 a.m. “All those hearts, all those faces enraptured by Puccini’s Madame Butterfly,” as my friend who lives in the Eastern Townships exclaims. She loves the opera, and I have never been! It’s a major shortcoming in my cultural knowledge and it should be my first resolution this year. There, you have it: I will go! I just asked my friend Google for the show dates. MADAME BUTTERFLY will be in Montreal from May 6 to 13, 2023. I have more than enough time to discover this popular opera by Puccini. — “Google, please tell me more about this Madame Butterfly.” — “A young geisha from Nagasaki, named Cio-Cio-San, becomes Madame Butterfly after she marries Pinkerton, an American naval officer. The young woman truly loves him and patiently awaits his return with their young son. One day Pinkerton does return with his new American wife.” — “Yuck. That story is worse than my bad marriage.” But I still want to learn all about it because I love stories, even those that turn out badly. — “In Montreal, from May 6 to 13, 2023.” Last night, happily nestled on my red couch, I watched a wonderful movie on NETFLIX: Hector and the Search for Happiness, directed by Peter Chelson in 2014. The story is about the incredible adventures of a psychiatrist named Hector (played by Simon Pegg), whose patients never seem to get any happier. He decides to travel the world in search of what makes people happy. For nearly two hours, I travelled with Hector, visited many countries and found a dozen good reasons to be happy. The movie is wonderful and I will watch it again soon because I want to write down every single reason. I strongly recommend this movie, which is full of nuggets of wisdom. We all want to be happy. Isn’t that what lies at the core of our life’s mission? The burdens of everyday life aside, shouldn’t we all leave this world content? Think about it for a while. Should we follow Hector’s example and look for new reasons to be happy? Maybe we simply forgot about the reasons we already had? Life deals out a new hand so often and worry drops on us from above like overripe apples in an orchard. I won’t travel the world like Hector did. However, I need to weed my garden, soften my speech and be more open to new experiences, encounters and adventures. Cora 🗺

5:49 a.m. at the ALT Hotel, Toronto Finally! I am able to return and fulfill my duties as the Founder of Cora restaurants, which today can be found from coast to coast. I am in Toronto to visit our locations in Ontario. I’m just so happy to be here, accompanied by a few company directors. I am delighted to see our wonderful franchisees in their restaurant once again. It also gives me a chance to greet the customers who recognize me and stop to shake my hand. Just like in the old days, I take a few minutes to sit with them at their table and inquire after their family, their children and if they like the new dishes we’ve added to the menu. Most of them insist on taking a selfie with me, and I love the closeness! I thank the stars for this brief moment of interaction every time it happens. It’s such a precious connection for me; I consider myself extremely privileged to be so loved. Thirty-five years of being immersed in the business probably has something to do with it. My face is all over the place: printed on the menu, framed on the walls and featured countless times in different ads. Knowing that I am not forgotten makes me happy. It gives me the push I need to keep going and reminds me that I still can’t imagine departing for another dimension. Speaking of departures, I boarded a big steel bird to travel from Montreal to downtown Toronto. All it took was 58 minutes – just enough time to drink my coffee and go over the itinerary of our restaurant visits and activities for the next few days. We’ll need to keep a steady pace; there’s not a minute to spare, according to François, the trip’s leader. Except, of course, for the many serendipitous stops for the Founder to meet her customers. I haven’t flown in nearly three years. I forgot my Bose headphones, and my ears were popping during the entire descent. I pressed and pulled on my ears and tried yawning; my poor head suffered. “One has to suffer to succeed,” my mother would say if she were still among us, with her hands permanently covered in eczema. She suffered terribly, and I am certain that she’s now the picture of health, busily ironing the angels’ robes in paradise. Honestly, nobody loved to iron like she did! She delighted in smoothing out the wrinkles of her husband’s extra-large clothes. 6:52 a.m. Seated in the hotel lobby, I unexpectedly get the chance to converse with a man with a face as calm, smooth and radiant as an angel’s. He immigrated to Canada 30 years ago from the Dalai Lama’s home country. Focused like a monk in prayer, he is busy dusting the coffee tables in the lobby and replacing the many cushions on the enormous sofas in the hall. His face breaks into a smile as he gets closer to the cocktail table where I’m sitting; I feel like a worshiper waiting for the holy host. His huge smile and heartfelt HELLO light up my face and a very agreeable conversation about life, grace and the potential serenity that resides in each one of us unfolds. When I boldly mention the ongoing war in Ukraine, the angelic man urges me to believe that we have to build peace within our hearts. Picking up his feather duster as if it were a sacred object, he bows his head and leaves. At that exact moment, the elevator doors open and release my flock of colleagues, who are all smiles. They look for the coffee machine and take a moment to enjoy their beverage as we discuss the day’s activities. We leave the hotel for our next destination: a recently renovated restaurant that has been open for 10 years. The franchisees greet us with much enthusiasm and pride. They are always delighted to see us, especially the Founder; you can see it in their eyes. And for just one moment, I become the world’s happiest person: the one who created this extraordinary breakfast restaurant concept. After shaking countless hands and sitting down numerous times at customers’ tables, I look up and down the walls, taking in each detail of the renovation. I created a few décor items myself and I insisted that they be displayed in the right place on the right walls. My colleagues put up with me; they know there’s a wolf hiding under sheep’s clothing. Most of them have been with the company for many years and are part of the family. 7:32 p.m. at the airport I type away on my iPad precariously placed on my lap. Our 8 p.m. flight has been delayed by 30 minutes. My colleagues talk about this and that while they wait for the giant bird to arrive at the gate. They are satisfied with the work they accomplished in the Greater Toronto Area. They can’t wait to be home again. Tomorrow morning, some of them will be joining me at the head office with their children for a photo shoot to announce a special event. The restaurant business is not an easy one. A reality we have known first-hand for 35 years. We love sharing our expertise and passion with our franchisees, along with a desire to delight our customers. Cora 🐑

7:37 a.m. at the coffee shop This morning, I make my way like a sleepwalker to the coffee shop, programmed through habit. I barely slept last night. Thank goodness it’s Friday and I have no appointments. I really want to share the unusual yet priceless discovery that kept me up all night. A single question tormented me the entire night. Without further ado, here is the question: “If you could keep one single memory and bring it with you in the afterlife, which one would it be?” What would you do if there was life after death and that all your memories were erased, but one? Which memory would you want to revisit eternally? I got into bed early last night, believe it or not, to read for a while before turning in. Happily nestled in bed, resting on two satin pillows, a page from a magazine threw me for a loop! What is most important to me? Which memory would I want to remember forever? I sit straight up in my bed and consider this highly significant issue. You know I’m not the type of person who simply sweeps soul-searching questions under the rug. I have spent the better part of the last three years analyzing my life and telling my story. I jump right out of bed, look for my slippers and head to the kitchen in my dressing gown. I flip open my iPad, tap on a few icons and type the name of the journalist who stole my night’s sleep. I want to know more. Google tells me that this important question comes from a 1998 Japanese movie entitled AFTER LIFE by director Hirokasu Kore-eda. I pour myself a coffee, which by now won’t surprise you, and peruse the Amazon website looking for the movie, but for $37, it doesn’t even mention which language it’s subtitled in. I have to wait to get in touch with a friend who’s better at this type of search than I am. I get comfortable on the couch in my library and I turn to the article in the magazine Happiness that first sparked my interest and kept me from Morpheus’ arms. In the movie, a group of people who have recently died find themselves in a place between heaven and earth – in limbo, I suppose – where they are given one week to choose a single memory from their past life. One single memory they can then take with them into eternity. The movie depicts how each person chooses that memory, which is then recorded so they can play it back at any time afterwards. My head and my heart plunge into a dreadful existential void as I read. Which single memory will I bring into eternity? My body stiff on the couch, I suddenly become like the deceased characters in the movie, parked in limbo with only one week to decide which memory to bring into eternity. Lost in thought, I am up all night creating my own movie; dreaming up a dozen scenarios that I end up ripping apart each time. Around 4 a.m., I grab the magazine again and discover a related article by Jacky van de Goor, a PhD researcher whose work is dedicated to collecting all kinds of memories from thousands of people. I try to find out more about her, but most of the information available through Google about Jacky von de Moor is written in German or a doctorate-level English that is too difficult for me to read. My eyelids are becoming as heavy as lead. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to choose. What do we know about death? Nothing at all. Since I am as curious as Australia’s frill-necked lizard, I would love to know which memory you would take with you into eternity. Dear readers, don’t follow my example! Don’t spend a sleepless night torturing your mind sifting through your memories. Reflect upon it while you are taking a stroll through nature. And if you feel like it, share your precious memory with me – such confessions bring us closer. I am quite certain that each of our precious memories represents the closest thing to what we might consider our life’s core. Cora ❤ P.S. I promise you this: I will revisit all my memories from my life until I find the most precious one to take with me into eternity. Eventually I will share it with you in a letter.

(Note to my readers: This letter was written in December.) I found myself in paradise’s library last Friday. It has to be true because I was in heaven! A huge place, I don’t know how many stories high, with long escalators, lovely posters hanging everywhere, arrows indicating directions, concession stands, information booths and angels dressed as school crossing guards. A thousand kids ran left and right in this real-life dream. I do not have enough words to describe the unbelievable sight: More than a million books revealing their pages to avid readers. The entire space is filled with the desire to learn and discover. Euphoric and curious, I sway from one bookshelf to the next, gathering pearls of wisdom from each story. I have known all my life that reading is the most fulfilling gift we can offer those we love. For the occasion, St. Peter has separated paradise by area of interest. I am even under the impression that the children’s section is a hundred times larger than the space dedicated to adults, which is only natural, I suppose. I have lived a full life for which I am very thankful; I have little left to accomplish down here. Young people have so much to learn in order to live well! As a young girl, I remember not having any books to read at home, no notepad to pour my secrets out in blue ink. And yet Mom had been a school teacher before she married. Had she even read a novel before eczema stopped her from holding a book in her hands? I had to beg and plead for her to register me at Collège de Rosemont. I can easily recall the small navy blue uniform she had sewn from Dad’s old overcoat, the long beige socks the nuns forced us to wear and the black mantilla covering our heads when we visited the chapel. I learned how to read real books during my first year of classical studies. And I never stopped. I took my school books very seriously but could lose myself in a romance novel. Soon enough, however, I much preferred the great authors of true literature; those who could teach me how to properly write. Nearly every wall in my house is covered by a white or brown IKEA bookcase, depending on the room. I’m telling you: I live in a library! And I love to be completely enveloped by books. My books are classified by topic: spirituality, religions of the world, geography and travel, magazines, business, history, literature, pocket book novels, biographies, cookbooks and many more. I guess the only thing I am missing is a book club (I’m thinking about it). I also have many pictures of my favourite authors, who keep me company. I move happily about the library overseen by angels. I stroll between the tables, I inspect the displays, I scamper down the aisles. Time slips through the divine hourglass. After many hours of meeting some of my favourite authors, I look for archangel Gabriel’s cane or at least a kind angel whose wings I might fly away on. My wonderful granddaughter texts me out of the blue as though she had heard me and offers to come pick me up. She wants to have dinner together. So I leave the Montreal Book Fair, transported by the grace of family love. Crossing the city, we find ourselves at her parents’ favourite restaurant in Laval. Do you know just how much I love my grandkids? My love for them could fill the entire heavens, and then some. Cora 📚

7:35 a.m. at the coffee shop The snow painted our picturesque Laurentian town all white overnight. When I open my eyes, I am five years old and want to go outside. – “Mom, where are my boots? And my mittens and my blue wool scarf?” The snow makes me think back to a time in my childhood when we carved out snow blocks in the snow to build a fort. My brother oversaw the operations while us girls had to carefully listen to his instructions or we’d get a snowball in the neck. Bobby, like my dad used to call him, was the champion of winter projects. And his specialty was igloos, in which he would sometimes imprison me when I teased him one too many times. I still clearly remember one particular winter day. My brother and I were building an enormous snowman. The snow was wet and it was easy to roll into two big balls which we were going to use to make a large figure just like Dad’s. That’s right! We were creating a snowman version of our dad, whom my brother enjoyed teasing; I in turn enjoyed teasing my brother. I had just helped him place one of the huge snowballs on top of the other when my brother’s body started to shake. He was squeezing his thighs and doubling over like he really had to go. Apparently he couldn’t wait, because before I could say anything, I saw a reddish liquid shoot straight out of him, staining the immaculate white snow. My brother was waving his arms wildly, screaming in terror. He thought he had been struck by some illness. It turns out, Mr. Know-It-All didn't know that when you eat beets, your urine turns a similar colour. How could he have known? The pain from mom’s eczema-blistered hands had abated enough to allow her to garden that summer. And the delicious red-brown beets were just one of the many things we had recently discovered. 8:45 a.m. This week at the head office, I received a letter from a little-known area in France. The sender was congratulating me on my French Canadian prose. The return address indicated “Gordes,” which I had to look up on Google. Population: 1,670 habitants Last census: 2019 Density: 35 habitants/km2 Area: 48.4 km Altitude: 373 m Founded in 1031 Gordes is ranked among the most beautiful villages in France. Its distinguishing feature is its location: perched high atop a mountain and visible from far, far away. Seen from the foot of the mountain, it gives the impression that it has been standing guard over the valley since forever. Good heavens, where is that? Google, help me again! “The village of Gordes is a French commune located in the Vaucluse department of the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region.” Distance Paris-Gordes: 718.8 kilometres 8 hours and 5 minutes by car Car rental: 16 euros/day Apoline Duschesne, the author of the letter, wants to know more about me. Her daughter is a teacher living in the province of Quebec and reads my weekly Sunday letters, which she then shares with her mother. Having retired from journalism 20 years ago, Appoline misses the written word. Without much preamble, she tells me that she wants to do what I do: WRITE. Apolline wants to empty her mind of the 30 years of news she has chronicled. She wants to change her life and change her style. She begs me to explain how I am able to enjoy such a close, honest and generous relationship with my readers as I recount stories of my life. 10:28 a.m. Dear Apolline, your letter touches me deeply. We are probably about the same age. After many years of hard work, I stopped my management activities at the business I built in 2018. Fourteen months later, a nasty virus spread around the globe. Locked up in my house, I was eventually asked to write a weekly letter to our wonderful customers, which would be posted on the Cora restaurants Facebook page. And so our customers began to read my Sunday letters. My initial intent was to simply encourage them to keep up their spirits as the pandemic overturned our worlds. Without realizing it, all the sorrow and frustrations I felt in my new retired life disappeared. I dare say, dear Apolline, that WRITING saved my life. Writing each day has become my ritual for happiness. My heart opened up by talking directly to my readers. Each day I explore the present, the surprising everydayness of life such as going for a drive in the mountains, visiting the market, browsing a new bookstore or simply pedalling faster on my new stationary bike. I usually write 4 or 5 hours each day, often at the coffee shop or sitting at my kitchen table while listening to baroque music. A wise man, whose name I forget, once told me that listening to baroque music helps you write. I also admit to taking a midday nap on the couch in the library for one or two hours, a thick mask covering my eyes. I read the rest of the time. I learn or search for new words that call to me. Since I started writing regularly, most of my money goes to purchasing bestsellers, how-to books and magazines of all kinds. They have now far surpassed the cost of all my colourful clothes, scarves, shoes and trinkets I wear on my clothes or in my hair. There, you have it, my dear Apolline. I know you will succeed in finding a new voice. Every human in its own way represents a ground to be cleared, a story to be told, a future to be sown. And maybe one day, in the commune of Gordes, I will have the wonderful opportunity to visit the Notre-Dame de Sénanque Abbey with you. Cora ☃