7 h 40
\nQue se passe-t-il ce matin? Le froid me pique le nez! Comme chaque dimanche, je me rends au caf\u00e9 du village pour \u00e9crire. Mes fringues fuchsia sont encore de saison tout comme mes chaussettes assorties, mais mes sandales laissent passer un petit froid entre mes orteils. Chaque d\u00e9but frisquet de l\u2019automne, je remets en question l\u2019ouverture du gros foyer du salon. Oui, oui! \u00c7a fait d\u00e9j\u00e0 cinq ou six ann\u00e9es que je ne l\u2019allume plus. Peut-\u00eatre suis-je devenue trop paresseuse pour ranger dans le garage une pleine corde de bois de chauffage et, \u00e0 chaque feu, pour charrier quatre ou cinq grosses b\u00fbches \u00e0 coller pr\u00e8s de l\u2019\u00e2tre. Tous les ans je me dis que ce n\u2019est pas n\u00e9cessaire \u00e0 mon bonheur, que j\u2019ai perdu les coordonn\u00e9s du ramoneur ambulant qui d\u2019ailleurs, ne cogne plus \u00e0 la porte depuis longtemps.<\/p>\n
Et pourtant, entendre les b\u00fbches qui cr\u00e9pitent me fascine. J\u2019aime aussi sentir l\u2019odeur de la fum\u00e9e de bois envahissant mon habitacle. Et le nec plus ultra du spectacle demeure les multiples mutations de la flamme passant du blanc au bleu, puis de l\u2019oranger au roux faiblissant. Je me souviens tellement de jadis lorsque le doux gr\u00e9sillement de la braise m\u2019endormait, le c\u0153ur content\u00e9 et les joues br\u00fblantes.<\/p>\n
8 h 48
\nVous en ai-je parl\u00e9? J\u2019ai pass\u00e9 cette fin d\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9 entour\u00e9e de jeunes b\u00e9b\u00e9s : trois petites filles de moins de trois mois et mes deux arri\u00e8re-petits-fils, un de sept mois et l\u2019autre de deux ans et des poussi\u00e8res. L\u2019\u00e9cart temporel entre eux et moi est monstrueux. Debout, j\u2019ai presque peur de prendre les petites dans mes bras, peur que mes genoux flanchent ou que mon poignet gauche l\u00e2che prise. Que vais-je donc faire de cette charpente branlante? La sagesse promise de l\u2019\u00e2ge est enferm\u00e9e dans ma t\u00eate. Nulle part ailleurs, elle ne me sert.<\/p>\n
L\u2019autre soir, nous sommes tous au restaurant. Avec les poussettes, les chaises portables pour b\u00e9b\u00e9s, les sacs \u00e0 couches, le lait maternel en petits flacons et tout le tralala. Les mamans ont l\u2019air tr\u00e8s \u00e0 l\u2019aise. Souriantes et jasantes, elles pr\u00eatent leurs poupons \u00e0 qui veut bien les cajoler, leur gratter le menton ou leur caresser la joue. Moi, muette comme une carpe, je constate \u00e0 quel point l\u2019\u00e2ge me d\u00e9vore. J\u2019ai vraiment besoin de construire une passerelle dans ma t\u00eate. Un au-del\u00e0 temporaire o\u00f9 je puis me r\u00e9fugier lorsqu\u2019il tombe des clous. Moi qui veux vivre jusqu\u2019\u00e0 100 ans, vais-je d\u00e9sapprendre \u00e0 compter?<\/p>\n
10 h 05
\nHier midi, j\u2019ai fait acte de pr\u00e9sence au salon fun\u00e9raire de Saint-Lin. Sylvain, le laitier de notre premier petit resto Cora ouvert en 1987, est soudainement d\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9 sur un terrain de golf \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e2ge de 63 ans. Tellement jeune et en parfaite sant\u00e9, un ange est venu le chercher. Tout de noir v\u00eatus, son \u00e9pouse, ses trois filles et son fils montent la garde devant une magnifique photo du paterfamilias. Je suis tr\u00e8s \u00e9mue, tellement de souvenirs joyeux assaillent ma m\u00e9moire. Et voil\u00e0 que, sto\u00efque, la m\u00e8re du d\u00e9funt entreprend de me consoler. La salle est bond\u00e9e de parents et de proches amis afflig\u00e9s par la perte d\u2019un homme si jeune. Heureusement, plusieurs enfants gambadent \u00e0 travers la foule de jeunes et moins jeunes vieillards et amis de la famille. Encore une fois, la vie audacieuse et saugrenue \u00e9tire ses grandes mains et s\u2019empare des fleurs qu\u2019elle convoite le plus.<\/p>\n
11 h 40
\nMaintenant que ma propre existence s\u2019\u00e9tire tel un long fleuve tranquille, je me rem\u00e9more ce temps de ma vie o\u00f9 je vivais simultan\u00e9ment un v\u00e9ritable bonheur \u00e0 aimer mes jeunes enfants et un enfer \u00e0 endurer les agissements de leur p\u00e8re. J\u2019avan\u00e7ais sur une corde raide et je r\u00eavais tous les jours de pouvoir m\u2019enfuir. Comment aurais-je pu m\u2019envoler avec autant de bagages? Les oiseaux sont beaucoup plus sages que nous les humains qui devons passer une vie presque enti\u00e8re \u00e0 conqu\u00e9rir notre libert\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Une vie d\u2019infortune est tellement longue pour certains, surtout lorsqu\u2019on l\u2019enrubanne d\u2019histoires surfaites. Nous voulons tellement bien faire l\u2019\u00e9loge de notre malheur que nous le glorifions finalement. Moi la premi\u00e8re, j\u2019ai jadis \u00e9crit quelques centaines de pages pour essayer d\u2019oublier l\u2019opprobre que l\u2019\u00e9poux m\u2019a fait subir. <\/p>\n
En 1967, l\u2019ann\u00e9e de l\u2019Exposition universelle dont le th\u00e8me \u00e9tait Terre des hommes, j\u2019avais 20 ans et j\u2019\u00e9tais une belle jeune fille innocente et encore ignorante des choses de la vie. Et pourtant, peut-\u00eatre pour me pr\u00e9parer \u00e0 mon horrible destin, mes ann\u00e9es d\u2019\u00e9tudes classiques m\u2019avaient enseign\u00e9 l\u2019histoire de la Gr\u00e8ce antique et de sa civilisation. Je connaissais par c\u0153ur les dieux et les h\u00e9ros de la mythologie gr\u00e9co-romaine ainsi que l\u2019\u00e9mergence du royaume de Mac\u00e9doine. De l\u00e0 m\u00eame d\u2019o\u00f9 venaient les arri\u00e8res, arri\u00e8res anc\u00eatres de l\u2019homme qui allait devenir incessamment mon \u00e9poux.<\/p>\n
Moi qui r\u00eavais \u00e0 cette \u00e9poque de r\u00e9\u00e9crire l\u2019Odyss\u00e9e d\u2019Hom\u00e8re, j\u2019ai plut\u00f4t eu affaire \u00e0 un conqu\u00e9rant de ce royaume de Mac\u00e9doine qui se croyait descendant de Zeus et qui, \u00e0 l\u2019encontre de la vraie histoire, devint le h\u00e9ros de la fain\u00e9antise, de la vantardise et des conqu\u00eates f\u00e9minines.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
7 h 40 Que se passe-t-il ce matin? Le froid me pique […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":10536,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10535","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"7:40 a.m.\r\nWhat is going on this morning? The cold is tickling my nose! I go to the caf\u00e9 in the village to write like I do every Sunday. My old fuchsia clothes are still in season, just like my matching socks, but my sandals allow a cold breeze to reach in between my toes. Every time the fall season rolls around, I debate whether or not to get the living room fireplace working. Really! It\u2019s already been five or six years since I last lit a fire in it. Perhaps I have become too lazy to store a full cord of wood in the garage and cart in 4 or 5 logs to place near the hearth each time. Every year I tell myself that all this trouble is not necessary for my happiness, that I have lost the phone number for the travelling chimney sweep, who, by the way, has not knocked on the door for some time. \r\n\r\nAnd yet it fascinates me to hear the logs crackle. I also love having that smoky smell throughout my home. And the best part of the show: the many transformations of the flame changing from white to blue and then from orange to a light amber. I can still vividly remember the old days when the ember\u2019s gentle crackle lulled me to sleep, my heart content and my cheeks warm. \r\n\r\n8:48 a.m.\r\nDid I tell you? I spent the end of the summer surrounded by babies: three small girls who are less than three months old, along with two of my great-grandsons. One is 7 months old and the other is a few months past his second year. The time gap between these tiny beings and me is vast. I was almost afraid of holding the girls while standing in case my knees failed me or my left wrist let go. What to do with this wobbly frame? The promised wisdom of age is locked in my head. Nowhere else is it useful to me.\r\n\r\nThe other night, we were all gathered at a restaurant. With the strollers, the portable chairs for the babies, the diaper bags, small bottles of breast milk \u2013 the whole shebang. The moms seemed quite comfortable, smiling and chatting away. Anyone who wanted could take their turn holding a baby, tickle a chin or caress a soft cheek. Sitting there quiet as a mouse, I realize to just what extent age is eating away at me. I really need to build a passageway in my head. A temporary beyond where I can take refuge when it pours. I want to live to 100, but will I ever unlearn to count? \r\n\r\n10:05 a.m.\r\nYesterday I visited a funeral home in Saint-Lin at noon to pay my respects. Sylvain, the milkman at our very first small Cora restaurant that opened in 1987, had died suddenly on a golf course at 63. He was so young and seemingly healthy when an angel had come to get him. His wife, his three daughters and son, all dressed in black, stood guard in front of a lovely picture of the patriarch. Happy memories swirled about in my mind and moved me to tears. And wouldn\u2019t you know, the stoic mother of the deceased started to console me. The room was full of friends and family grieving the loss of such a young man. The mood was lightened by several children scampering through the crowd of young and not-so-young friends of the family. Once again, this bold, strange life stretches out her large hands and takes hold of the flowers she covets most. \r\n\r\n11:40 a.m.\r\nNow with my own existence stretched like a long and calm river, I remember the time in my life when I experienced both true happiness in loving my young children while enduring a living hell because of their father\u2019s cruelty. I was walking on a tightrope, and each day I dreamt of escaping. How could I ever fly away with so much baggage? The birds are much wiser than us humans, who have to spend the better part of our lives trying to win our freedom. \r\n\r\nA life of misfortune is interminable for some, especially when wrapped in embellished stories. We so desperately want to praise our misfortune that we end up glorifying it. I did it myself some time ago when I wrote hundreds of pages to try to forget all the scorn heaped upon me by my spouse. \r\n\r\nIn 1967, the year of the International and Universal Exhibition in Montreal (or Expo 67 as it is known), whose theme was \u201cA Man and His World,\u201d I was a pretty 20-year-old, innocent and still ignorant of the facts of life. And yet, my years of classical studies had perhaps in some way prepared me for my dreadful destiny. I knew the history of Ancient Greece and its civilization, could name the gods and heroes from Greek-Roman mythology by heart and had studied the rise of the Kingdom of Macedonia. The land of the great, great ancestors of the man who was soon to become my husband. \r\n\r\nAll I wanted then was to rewrite Homer\u2019s Odyssey. Instead I ended up entwined with a conqueror from the Kingdom of Macedonia who believed himself to be a descendant of Zeus. Unlike the legend, he turned out to be the hero of laziness, bragging and female conquests. \r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n