Mme Cora's letter
See all letters
May 4, 2025
Uncle Gaston’s shack
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
❤️
April 27, 2025
Childhood sweethearts
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
❤️
Read more
April 20, 2025
My firstborn, the artist
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
♥️
Read more
April 13, 2025
Why I write
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
❤️
Read more
