Pour No\u00ebl, \u00e0 vous tous qui me lisez, je veux vous manifester mon incommensurable gratitude. Savez-vous que vous m\u2019avez sauv\u00e9e des eaux boueuses de l\u2019ennui, de la morosit\u00e9 et des papillons noirs, porteurs de mauvais augure? Oui, oui! Vous m\u2019avez gard\u00e9e saine d\u2019esprit et je vous dois ma nouvelle carri\u00e8re de barbouilleuse de papier blanc.<\/p>\n
Le titre de notre premi\u00e8re LETTRE publi\u00e9e le 1er<\/sup>\u00a0avril\u00a02020 s\u2019intitulait \u00ab\u00a0\u00c7A VA BIEN ALLER\u00a0\u00bb. On aurait pu penser que ce titre parlait d\u2019une faiblarde consolation \u00e0 ce qui nous mena\u00e7ait; ou peut-\u00eatre, de l\u2019histoire d\u2019un r\u00e9el poisson d\u2019avril pour stimuler nos \u00e9clats de rire. Ce n\u2019\u00e9tait ni l\u2019un ni l\u2019autre et nous avons vis\u00e9 en plein dans le mille en continuant d\u2019\u00e9crire.<\/p>\n Ces LETTRES devaient \u00eatre temporaires et c\u2019est votre pur amour, chers lecteurs, qui nous a incit\u00e9 \u00e0 les garder. D\u2019une semaine \u00e0 l\u2019autre, une nouvelle missive sort de ma t\u00eate et entre dans vos c\u0153urs. Vous \u00eates cet accueillant r\u00e9ceptacle, ce miracle. Tous ces c\u0153urs aimant mes mots et vos milliers de d\u00e9licieux commentaires me le prouvent chaque semaine, et je jubile.<\/p>\n Depuis le d\u00e9but des lettres du dimanche, vous tous m\u2019avez donn\u00e9 une nouvelle existence, une passion ch\u00e8re \u00e0 mon c\u0153ur et une extraordinaire fa\u00e7on de vouloir allonger ma vie. C\u2019est \u00e0 vous, tr\u00e8s chers lecteurs que je dois tous ces bienfaits. Je lis chacune des lignes que vous m\u2019envoyez. Certes je ne peux pas r\u00e9pondre \u00e0 tout le monde, mais j\u2019adore toujours vous rencontrer un peu partout dans mes d\u00e9placements\u00a0: dans les all\u00e9es d\u2019un Jean Coutu, Metro, Provigo, Winners, Walmart ou Marshalls. Je jase, je jase comme si j\u2019\u00e9tais un affectueux perroquet cacato\u00e8s \u00e0 poitrine rose et aux petites ailes gris p\u00e2le.<\/p>\n Croyez-le ou non, je suis encore c\u00e9libataire! Dans ma t\u00eate personne n\u2019est d\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9, mais, comme dirait le c\u00e9l\u00e8bre Alphonse\u00a0de\u00a0Lamartine dans ses M\u00e9ditations po\u00e9tiques de 1820\u00a0: \u00ab\u00a0UN SEUL \u00caTRE ME MANQUE ET TOUT ME SEMBLE D\u00c9PEUPL\u00c9.\u00a0\u00bb Passerais-je ma vie \u00e0 attendre un inconnu? Quelquefois, je me dis que ce fant\u00f4me est ma muse, mon inspiration, et j\u2019endimanche ce vide de tr\u00e8s espi\u00e8gles fa\u00e7ons.<\/p>\n LUNDI ressemble \u00e0 \u00c9ole, le dieu des vents. Il pr\u00e9f\u00e8re la nature \u00e0 la ville et, comme moi, il aime caresser les fragiles bouleaux blancs. Nous apprenons \u00e0 nous conna\u00eetre lui et moi. Ensemble, nous atteignons le sommet de l\u2019Everest. LUNDI en profite pour \u00e9bouriffer quelques nuages et s\u2019allonger sur de minuscules buissons. Pendant que mes doigts caressent sa poitrine argent\u00e9e, je lui murmure quelques quatrains et il s\u2019endort. Je l\u2019entends r\u00eaver. Il chicane une brune et complimente une blonde. LUNDI souffle un peu trop fort dans ma chevelure et mon corps d\u00e9gringole.<\/p>\n La ros\u00e9e du matin s\u2019appelle MARDI. Frais et bruyant, l\u2019homme me raconte ses fredaines nocturnes. Vite, vite, avant que l\u2019astre jaune ne se l\u00e8ve, MARDI remplit son c\u0153ur de fines gouttelettes. Il agrippe ma main, il se vante, il exag\u00e8re. D\u00e9j\u00e0, il craint de dispara\u00eetre. Son visage craquel\u00e9 d\u2019un vert clair fatigu\u00e9 fixe les vers de terre grouillant sous les buissons. Un hennissement d\u2019\u00e9talon agresse les abeilles. La nettet\u00e9 du jour \u00e9loigne ma v\u00e9h\u00e9mence.<\/p>\n MERCREDI est un acteur vieillissant qui oublie ses lignes. Beau comme un Bradley Cooper \u00e0 t\u00eate blanche, il confond ses rep\u00e8res. L\u2019homme avale quelques tranches de poulet pour d\u00e9jeuner, remplit son ventre de gruau vers midi et \u00e9parpille les miettes d\u2019un croissant en s\u2019endormant. Il r\u00eave, me dit-il, d\u2019une derni\u00e8re croisi\u00e8re. L\u2019Alaska attise mes ardeurs, les glaciers tout blancs. Le c\u0153ur de MERCREDI, quasi impotent. Sur le quai, mes orteils gel\u00e9s m\u2019emp\u00eachent d\u2019avancer.<\/p>\n JEUDI m\u2019apporte des fleurs en p\u00e2te \u00e0 biscuits\u00a0: des roses, des jaunes, des bleues, quelques corolles bariol\u00e9es. Lui-m\u00eame, me dit-il, les a faites en \u00e9coutant le requiem de Mozart. Je croque une rose et \u00e7a go\u00fbte la rose. Je croque le bleu et \u00e7a go\u00fbte ses yeux. JEUDI a des airs de musicien d\u2019\u00e9glise o\u00f9 je voudrais m\u2019agenouiller. Je touche ses mains qui savent fa\u00e7onner la p\u00e2te, nourrir les fleurs et certainement amadouer mon c\u0153ur. J\u2019ose esp\u00e9rer qu\u2019il prenne aussi soin de mon \u00e2me!<\/p>\n VENDREDI est le cinqui\u00e8me larron de la semaine. Son nom, issu du latin, signifie le jour de V\u00e9nus. J\u2019apprends donc rapidement que pour cet homme, chaque femme m\u00e9rite une c\u00e9l\u00e9bration. Qu\u2019elle soit Simonetta\u00a0Vespucci, la Joconde, la V\u00e9nus de Milo aux bras coup\u00e9s, ou ma voisine de table au caf\u00e9, le fait est qu\u2019il les aime toutes. Je me souviens en particulier d\u2019un soir o\u00f9 nous sommes all\u00e9s au Th\u00e9\u00e2tre Gilles\u00a0Vigneault du canton. L\u2019homme s\u2019\u00e9tait mis sur son trente-six pour zieuter chaque madone. J\u2019\u00e9tais la plus belle, mais ses yeux us\u00e9s l\u2019ignoraient.<\/p>\n Un beau SAMEDI d\u00e9pose un po\u00e8me sur ma table d\u2019\u00e9criture et mon c\u0153ur coule au fond de l\u2019oc\u00e9an. Je nage, je nage et j\u2019ai peur d\u2019affronter ce po\u00e8te au magnifique visage. Lorsqu\u2019enfin il s\u2019approche, je constate que ses iris bleu vif ont la couleur des \u00e9cailles d\u2019un requin. Pour s\u00fbr, l\u2019homme pourrait tremper sa plume dans l\u2019\u00e9meraude de mes yeux. Pour s\u00fbr, je croquerais chacune de ses superbes lignes. Mon c\u0153ur bat la chamade et je m\u2019emballe. Dans mes veines, le sang bout et court-circuite ma raison. Assis \u00e0 ma table, ce SAMEDI endimanch\u00e9 s\u2019affaire \u00e0 ralentir la d\u00e9bandade du temps. Il boit son latt\u00e9 par petites gorg\u00e9es. Il me d\u00e9visage et j\u2019ai l\u2019impression que son c\u0153ur \u00e9crit de nouveaux mots sur mes joues, sur mon front; et cache quelques courtes phrases dans mon cou. M\u00eame si la peur m\u2019assaille, je reste droite. Je ne suis ni page blanche ni ardoise rutilante, mais mon \u00eatre est encore affam\u00e9 d\u2019amour. Mes phrases se fendillent, mes verbes craquellent et mes longs paragraphes peinent \u00e0 se tenir debout. Pourtant, dans mon for int\u00e9rieur, mon c\u0153ur affiche encore vingt\u00a0ans.<\/p>\n Un matin de premi\u00e8re neige, un homme magnifique passe devant ma table et me sourit. Beau comme une \u00e9glise, je le nomme DIMANCHE. Le temps passe, passe et un jour DIMANCHE s\u2019arr\u00eate \u00e0 ma table. Il me d\u00e9visage. Deux magnifiques yeux noirs, velout\u00e9s et brillants enflamment mon regard. J\u2019attends et je d\u00e9visage ses l\u00e8vres tremblantes s\u2019appr\u00eatant \u00e0 me dire quelques mots. \u00ab\u00a0Je b\u00e2tissais des maisons, je suis \u00e0 la retraite, je joue au golf, je vous trouve tr\u00e8s jolie et je suis encore\u2026 mari\u00e9.\u00a0\u00bb J\u2019ai des millions de mots \u00e0 lui dire, mais je les avale tous. Le tout blanc de l\u2019hiver endort les fourmis et mon c\u0153ur aussi.<\/p>\n Je d\u00e9p\u00e9ris. J\u2019implore Chronos, le dieu du temps qui s\u2019\u00e9coule, pour qu\u2019il m\u2019envoie une huiti\u00e8me journ\u00e9e.<\/p>\n Cora Pour No\u00ebl, \u00e0 vous tous qui me lisez, je veux vous manifester […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":29388,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-29387","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"This Christmas, I want to express my immeasurable gratitude to all my readers. Did you know that you saved me from the muddy waters of boredom, moroseness and black moths bearing bad omens? I swear! You have kept me sane, and I owe you my new career as a notepad scribbler.\r\n\r\nThe first letter, published on April 1, 2020, was entitled \u201cIt\u2019s going to be OK.\u201d A letter promising gentle encouragement or perhaps an April Fools\u2019 prank meant to get a few good laughs? It was neither, of course, and our decision to keep writing to you every Sunday has been gratifying beyond measure.\r\n\r\nThese letters were supposed to be temporary, but your devotion, dear readers, enticed us to keep at it. From one week to the next, a new letter emerges from my imagination and enters your hearts. You are a welcoming vessel, a miracle. All the heart emojis give my words love, and thousands of delicious comments are proof each week, and I rejoice.\r\n\r\nSince the beginning of the Sunday letters, you have given me a new existence, a passion that\u2019s dear to my heart and a most extraordinary way of extending my life. I owe all these blessings to you, my dear readers. I peruse all your comments, one by one. I can\u2019t reply to everyone, but I always enjoy bumping into you while I\u2019m running my errands at Jean Coutu, Costco, Winners, Walmart or Marshalls. I chat and babble as if I were an affectionate pink-breasted cockatoo with pale grey wings.\r\n\r\nI\u2019m still single, believe it or not! I haven\u2019t lost anyone, but as the famous poet Alphonse de Lamartine wrote in 1820 in his M\u00e9ditations po\u00e9tiques<\/em>: \u201cI MISS A CERTAIN BEING AND EVERYTHING SEEMS DESERTED.\u201d Will I spend my life waiting for a stranger? I tell myself sometimes that this ghost is my muse, my inspiration, and I spend my days filling up this void in very mischievous ways.\r\n\r\nMONDAY appears as Aeolus, the Keeper of the Four Winds. He prefers country living to the city and, and like me, enjoys caressing white birches. We are getting to know each other. Together, we summit Everest. MONDAY takes a moment to ruffle a few clouds and lie down on small shrubs. I whisper a few quatrains in his ear and he falls asleep while my fingers caress his silver chest. I hear him dream. He argues with a brunette and compliments a blonde. MONDAY blows my hair a little too forcefully and my body slumps.\r\n\r\nThe morning dew is named TUESDAY. Fresh and loud, the man tells me about his nocturnal escapades. Quickly, before the yellow star rises, TUESDAY fills his heart with water droplets. He grabs my hand, he brags, he exaggerates. He\u2019s already afraid of disappearing. His wrinkled, pale green face stares wearily at the earthworms under the bushes. A stallion\u2019s neigh assaults the bees. The clarity of the day keeps my vehemence at bay.\r\n\r\nWEDNESDAY is an aging actor who forgets his lines. Handsome like a silver-haired Bradley\u00a0Cooper, confusion settles in; he starts to lose his bearings. The fellow swallows a few chicken strips for breakfast, fills his stomach with oatmeal around noon and scatters the crumbs of a croissant as he falls asleep. He dreams, he tells me, \u201cof one last cruise.\u201d Alaska stirs up my enthusiasm, with its immaculately white glaciers. WEDNESDAY\u2019s heart, nearly impotent. On the pier, my frozen toes stop me from moving forward.\r\n\r\nTHURSDAY brings me flowers made of cookie dough: pink, yellow and blue ones, and a few with patterned petals. He baked them himself, he tells me, with Mozart\u2019s requiem playing in the background. A bite of a pink one tastes like a rose. I sink my teeth into a blue one and I can taste his eyes. THURSDAY has the airs of a church musician I\u2019d like to kneel in front of. I touch these hands that know how to shape dough, feed flowers and that might even soften my heart. I dare to hope that he might also care for my soul!\r\n\r\nFRIDAY is the fifth passerby of the week. His name in Latin means \u201cday of Venus.\u201d I quickly learn that he believes every woman deserves to be celebrated. Simonetta Vespucci, Mona Lisa, the Venus of Milo with her severed arms and the woman sitting next to me at the coffee shop \u2013 he loves them all. I remember a certain night at the theatre. FRIDAY was dressed to the nines and eyeing all the ladies. I was the prettiest one, but his worn eyes couldn\u2019t tell.\r\n\r\nA handsome SATURDAY places a poem on my writing table and my heart drops to the bottom of the ocean. I swim and swim, and I\u2019m afraid to face this poet with a beautiful face. When he finally draws near me, I realize his eyes are bright blue like shark scales. This man could dip his fountain pen in the emerald of my eyes. I'd bite into every one of his great lines. My heart beats wildly and I get carried away. The blood simmers in my veins and short-circuits my reason. Sitting at my table, the fancily dressed SATURDAY busies himself slowing down the passage of time. He drinks his latte in small sips. He looks at me and I feel his heart writing new words on my cheeks and forehead and hiding a few short sentences in my neck. Although I\u2019m afraid, I stay my ground. I\u2019m no blank page or shiny slate, but my entire being is still hungry for love. My sentences crack, my verbs creak and my long paragraphs struggle to stay erect. Yet deep inside me, my heart is still only 20.\r\n\r\nWhen the first snow falls, a splendid man walks by my table and smiles. He\u2019s as beautiful as a church. I call him SUNDAY. Time passes and flies by and, one day, SUNDAY stops at my table. He stares at me. Two piercing black eyes, velvety and brilliant, ignite my gaze. I wait for his trembling lips to pronounce a few words and absorb every detail about him. \u201cI used to build houses for a living. I\u2019m retired, I play golf. I find you very attractive and I\u2019m still\u2026married.\u201d I have a million words I want to tell him, but I swallow them all. The whiteness of winter puts ants to sleep, and my heart as well.\r\n\r\nI'm wasting away. I implore Chronos, the god of passing time, to send me an eighth day.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"