PLUS JE VIEILLIS, MOINS JE PLEURE<\/p>\n
8\u00a0h\u00a005 au caf\u00e9 du village
\nSerait-ce mon c\u0153ur qui s\u2019endurcit? Je ne me souviens plus de la derni\u00e8re fois o\u00f9 j\u2019ai pleur\u00e9. S\u00e9cheresse oculaire, s\u00e9cheresse de la peau, s\u00e9cheresse de la bouche et s\u00e9cheresse de la vieillesse envahissante. Dieu merci, mon encre coule encore. Et comme le faisait ma m\u00e8re, j\u2019ai longtemps ramass\u00e9 les larmes des nuages pour laver ma chevelure.<\/p>\n
Toute petite, je braillais pour des riens. Je m\u2019en souviens encore. Lorsque fr\u00e9rot froissait mon dessin, prenait mon efface ou mordillait mes crayons de couleur. Lorsqu\u2019il mettait des fraises dans mon seau sans les \u00e9queuter ou qu\u2019il cachait ses billes pour m\u2019emp\u00eacher de jouer. Dans mon souvenir, mon fr\u00e8re \u00e9tait une esp\u00e8ce de \u00ab\u00a0Denis la petite peste\u00a0\u00bb avant son temps.<\/p>\n
Maman pleurait en cachette ou sur l\u2019\u00e9paule de la voisine Berthelot lorsque le mari partait travailler. \u00c0 cette \u00e9poque, le malheur ressemblait \u00e0 un mille-pattes olympien capable de grimper partout.<\/p>\n
Lorsque papa revenait le vendredi soir et qu\u2019il s\u2019ouvrait une bi\u00e8re en \u00e9coutant Mario\u00a0Lanza, notre petit salon s\u2019emplissait de tristesse. Il m\u2019arrivait souvent de vouloir s\u00e9cher ses larmes d\u00e9goulinantes sur ses grosses joues, mais je me retenais. Jamais nos petits corps n\u2019approchaient la chaleur de nos parents, jamais de c\u00e2lins, jamais de mots doux et jamais de r\u00e9compenses qui auraient pu nous faire croire que nous \u00e9tions de gentils enfants.<\/p>\n
Je suppose que c\u2019est l\u2019eau de la mer qui absorbait nos chagrins et nous avons grandi comme des herbes sauvages sur le bord des routes, sans tendresse ni solide guidance. L\u2019amour manquant entre nos deux parents \u00e9tait comme un fant\u00f4me toujours \u00e9veill\u00e9. La nuit, bien souvent, je les entendais argumenter\u00a0: ma m\u00e8re grognait et mon p\u00e8re pleurnichait. Qu\u2019aurais-je pu faire d\u2019autre \u00e0 cette \u00e9poque que de croire \u00e0 la mar\u00e2tre de vie gouvernant nos existences? Je n\u2019avais rien appris des choses de la vie qu\u2019une jeune fille devrait savoir lorsqu\u2019elle grandit.<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai pleur\u00e9 comme une madeleine pendant chacune de mes ann\u00e9es de mariage\u00a0: lorsque la belle-m\u00e8re critiquait ma fa\u00e7on de cuisiner, que les belles-s\u0153urs placotaient dans mon dos, chaque fois que l\u2019\u00e9poux m\u2019emp\u00eachait de voir mes parents et presque tous les soirs alors que les enfants dormaient. Mes yeux coulaient en permanence quand je me retrouvais seule, \u00e0 l\u2019abri des regards. Puis, je me suis enfuie et ce fut comme si, tout d\u2019un coup, le ciel avait ass\u00e9ch\u00e9 tous ses nuages. Sur la terre ferme, je me suis reb\u00e2tie. Jour apr\u00e8s jour, j\u2019ai commenc\u00e9 \u00e0 croire aux miracles, aux anges, aux bonnes f\u00e9es et \u00e0 la main tendue d\u2019un grand manitou qui ne fait qu\u2019aimer les humains.<\/p>\n
Mon actuel bonheur consiste \u00e0 endimancher l\u2019ordinaire de chaque journ\u00e9e. Sourire, tendre la main, reconna\u00eetre, donner, prier, aimer et \u00e9crire. \u00c9crire pour alimenter mes lignes, abreuver les c\u0153urs esseul\u00e9s et ennoblir mon \u00e2me.<\/p>\n
J\u2019\u00e9cris un peu partout, mais je pr\u00e9f\u00e8re dans un caf\u00e9, entour\u00e9e d\u2019humains. J\u2019entends la musique de leur bienfaisant ronron et je re\u00e7ois des dizaines de jolis bonjours. On pourrait penser que l\u2019activit\u00e9 du lieu me d\u00e9range, mais c\u2019est tout le contraire. Je souris en permanence.<\/p>\n
Peut-\u00eatre cela me vient-il de mes nombreuses ann\u00e9es en restauration. Tant\u00f4t cuisini\u00e8re et tant\u00f4t patronne, j\u2019adorais \u00eatre entour\u00e9e de tous ces gentils clients. Aujourd\u2019hui, j\u2019\u00e9cris. Je compose des lettres d\u00e9licieuses avec la m\u00eame ardeur de jadis, lorsque je voulais faire plaisir \u00e0 mon monde.<\/p>\n
J\u2019aime encore, chers lecteurs, vous servir votre premier caf\u00e9 du dimanche et vous surprendre avec une histoire abracadabrante. J\u2019aime surtout raconter tout ce qu\u2019il y a \u00e0 dire sur cette glorieuse banalit\u00e9 du quotidien. C\u2019est d\u2019ailleurs mon th\u00e8me favori.<\/p>\n
Plus je vieillis et moins je pleure. J\u2019apprends \u00e0 d\u00e9dramatiser ma vie et m\u00eame les petites contrari\u00e9t\u00e9s du quotidien. J\u2019\u00e9gare des objets, mes cl\u00e9s aux deux jours, mes lunettes de soleil, mon petit portefeuille de cartes, ma liste d\u2019\u00e9picerie et patati et patata. Je m\u2019arrange pour contrecarrer mes oublis.<\/p>\n
Je bouge plus lentement qu\u2019avant; je r\u00e9fl\u00e9chis avant d\u2019agir; avant de sortir de la maison, avant de quitter le caf\u00e9 o\u00f9 j\u2019\u00e9cris, ou le bureau de l\u2019entreprise o\u00f9 je vais deux jours par semaine.<\/p>\n
Aurais-je oubli\u00e9 quelque chose? O\u00f9 est mon cellulaire? Cet appareil \u00e9lectronique de t\u00e9l\u00e9communication m\u2019est totalement indispensable. Si je l\u2019\u00e9gare, je vais pleurer.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
PLUS JE VIEILLIS, MOINS JE PLEURE 8\u00a0h\u00a005 au caf\u00e9 du village Serait-ce […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":25366,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-25364","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"8:05 a.m. at the coffee shop\r\nCould my heart be hardening? I don\u2019t remember the last time I cried. Dry eyes, dry skin, dry mouth and the invasive dryness of old age. Thank goodness, my ink still flows. For the longest time I washed my hair with the water I collected from the clouds\u2019 tears, just like my mother used to.\r\n\r\nWhen I was a child, I bawled for nothing and everything. I cried when my brother crumpled my drawing, stole my eraser or chewed on my colouring pencils. I sobbed when he put strawberries in my basket without destemming them first and when he hid his marbles to keep me from playing with them. I remember my brother as some sort of Dennis the Menace before his time..\r\n\r\nMother cried in her room or on the shoulder of our neighbour Mrs. Berthelot when Dad\u2019s job as a travelling salesman would take him away on his business trips. During those years, misery looked like an Olympic-sized centipede capable of climbing anywhere and slipping into any crevice.\r\n\r\nWhen Dad came back on Friday nights and opened a bottle of beer while listening to Mario Lanza, our living room filled with sadness. I often wanted to dry the tears that fell on his big cheeks, but I didn\u2019t. Our small bodies never got near the warmth of our parents. There were never any hugs, no pet names or kind words and never any rewards that might have made us feel like we were good kids.\r\n\r\nI guess our sorrows were washed into the sea when the tide went out and we grew up like wild weeds on the side of the road, without tenderness or solid guidance. The absence of love between our parents was like permanently living with a ghost in the room. I regularly heard them quarrelling late at night: my mother grumbled and my father wept. What else could I have done at that time but to believe that life was an unfair and unforgiving mistress who governed our lives? I knew nothing about the important things a young girl should know as she grows into adulthood.\r\n\r\nI cried night and day in silence every single year I was married: when the mother-in-law criticized how I cooked, when my sisters-in-law talked behind my back, each time the husband forbade me to see my parents and almost every night once the kids were asleep. My eyes were constantly tearing up as soon as I found myself alone in the apartment, behind closed doors. Eventually, I escaped with the children, and it\u2019s as if the sky cleared and all the clouds dispersed. I rebuilt my life on solid ground. Day after day, I started believing in miracles, angels, fairy godmothers and in the helping hand of a superpower who exists is to love humans.\r\n\r\nMy happiness now consists of dressing up the ordinariness of each day. Smile, lend a hand, acknowledge, give, pray, love and write. Writing to feed my lines, quench lonely hearts and ennoble my soul.\r\n\r\nI write almost anywhere, but I prefer the coffee shop, surrounded by people. I hear the music of their chitchat, and people send dozens of sweet hellos my way. One could think that the hustle and bustle of the place bothers me, but the opposite is true. I always have a smile on my face.\r\n\r\nMaybe that\u2019s what I\u2019ve taken away from all those years I worked in restaurants. From cook to boss, I loved being surrounded by customers. Today, I write. I compose delicious letters with the same enthusiasm I had when all I wanted was to please those sitting at our tables.\r\n\r\nI still love to serve you your first Sunday morning coffee, dear readers, and surprise you with an entertaining story. I especially love recounting everything there is to say on the great banality of everyday life. It\u2019s my favourite theme..\r\n\r\nThe older I get, the less I cry. I learn to dedramatize my life, including even the smallest daily annoyances. I misplace objects; I lose my keys every other day, my sunglasses, my credit card holder, my grocery list and so on. I have my ways to foil my forgetfulness.\r\n\r\nl get around a bit slower than I used to. I think before I act; before leaving the house or coffee shop where I write, or heading off to the office twice a week.\r\n\r\nDid I forget something? Where is my cell phone? This electronic telecommunication gadget is absolutely essential for me. If I lose it, I\u2019ll cry.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n