Plus j\u2019avance en \u00e2ge et plus j\u2019ai envie de sauter les cl\u00f4tures du gros bon sens. Je prends conscience que mon temps ici-bas s\u2019ach\u00e8ve. D\u00e9j\u00e0, j\u2019imagine quelques sc\u00e9narios. Mes genoux qui craquellent, mes doigts qui grimpent les uns sur les autres, mes affreux oublis et ma m\u00e9moire qui devient une r\u00e9elle passoire.<\/p>\n
Au quotidien, je s\u00e8me quelques graines dans mon cervelet mollet et rien ne pousse. J\u2019essaie d\u2019\u00e9crire, je cherche de jolis mots, quelques belles phrases ou une nouvelle histoire \u00e0 vous raconter. J\u2019avance et j\u2019implore les anges. L\u2019\u00e9criture pourrait-elle encore \u00eatre ma pri\u00e8re matinale?<\/p>\n
Tr\u00e8s t\u00f4t, tr\u00e8s souvent au caf\u00e9, j\u2019\u00e9cris comme si je n\u2019allais jamais mourir. Aujourd\u2019hui (le 11\u00a0mai 2025), je c\u00e9l\u00e8bre la f\u00eate de toutes les m\u00e8res et je me demande o\u00f9 sont mes trois enfants. Tous dans la cinquantaine, ce sont peut-\u00eatre leurs rejetons qui, en fin de journ\u00e9e, me diront \u00ab\u00a0Bonne f\u00eate des M\u00e8res, grand-m\u00e8re!\u00a0\u00bb.<\/p>\n
Ainsi va la vie. Mon \u00e2ge s\u2019affaire \u00e0 grimper plus haut que les nuages. J\u2019essaie de rester forte, j\u2019en perds des bouts. Je vis au gr\u00e9 de ma m\u00e9t\u00e9o avec mes brouillards et mon beau temps cach\u00e9s en dedans de moi.<\/p>\n
J\u2019observe le gazon tout jaune de pissenlits, l\u2019eau trop froide de la piscine, deux marmottes sous ma galerie, quelques jeunes chevreuils grignotant ma haie de c\u00e8dres. Dehors, sur mon toit en pente, quelques corneilles s\u2019agrippent et s\u2019agitent, braquant leurs yeux sur un petit chardonneret jaune aux ailes noiraudes. Vite, j\u2019enfile mes vieux bottillons et je remplis toutes les mangeoires de graines de tournesol. L\u2019oiseau jaune construira-t-il son nid tout pr\u00e8s des grandes fen\u00eatres de ma cuisine? Suis-je en contr\u00f4le de la situation? J\u2019ai quelquefois l\u2019impression que le quadrilat\u00e8re de ma grande maison rapetisse \u00e0 vue d\u2019\u0153il. Plus je lis, plus les livres s\u2019empilent, et plus j\u2019oublie la th\u00e9matique de chaque \u00e9tag\u00e8re.<\/p>\n
Chaque matin, j\u2019\u00e9cris pour que ma vie vaille encore la peine d\u2019\u00eatre v\u00e9cue. M\u00e8re sans p\u00e8re, accro aux mots, j\u2019ai toujours un calepin \u00e0 port\u00e9e de main, un ou deux stylos qui ne tachent pas les doigts, des notes, des milliers de notes \u00e0 me rappeler, \u00e0 recopier, \u00e0 peaufiner. Mon esprit emprunte des routes impr\u00e9visibles; une succession in\u00e9dite de lignes se dirigeant toutes vers l\u2019empire du silence. Vivrai-je encore longtemps? J\u2019aimerais m\u2019endormir dans une immense for\u00eat de sapins. Dos au sol, je respirerai le sublime parfum des arbres. Sans larmes, ni peur, ni remords, simplement devenir quelque pitance pour les verres de terre.<\/p>\n
Pour moi, vivre est un plaisir qui commence \u00e0 ressembler \u00e0 un d\u00e9but d\u2019inqui\u00e9tude. Fini les longs voyages en Mini, les d\u00e9parts improvis\u00e9s, les arriv\u00e9es \u00e9puis\u00e9es. J\u2019esp\u00e8re encore pouvoir imaginer tout ce que je n\u2019ai pas v\u00e9cu. M\u00eame l\u2019amour, ce vagabond inarr\u00eatable. L\u2019aurais-je entendu s\u2019il avait cogn\u00e9 \u00e0 ma porte? Toutes ces ann\u00e9es de femme d\u2019affaires trop occup\u00e9e \u00e0 gagner sa cro\u00fbte; toutes ces r\u00e9ussites m\u2019auraient-elles priv\u00e9e d\u2019amour? M\u00eame avec mon nom affich\u00e9 en grosses lettres sur plus de cent quarante devantures, qui se souviendra de moi?<\/p>\n
\u00c9crire, je vous le jure, demeure l\u2019acte par excellence pour amadouer le brouillard mental de mon esprit. Depuis plus de cinq ans, j\u2019\u00e9cris pratiquement chaque jour, souvent aussi en soir\u00e9e et dans mon lit la nuit lorsqu\u2019un mauvais r\u00eave me r\u00e9veille en sursaut. Je ne bois que de l\u2019eau la nuit pour que coulent mes id\u00e9es.<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai souvent l\u2019impression qu\u2019avancer dans une histoire provoque en moi quelques tr\u00e9molos de plus en plus difficiles \u00e0 cerner. Parfois un titre s\u2019impose, une ligne \u00e9nigmatique s\u2019\u00e9chappe de ma t\u00eate, un souvenir \u00e0 moiti\u00e9 d\u00e9terr\u00e9 surgit de mon enfance en Gasp\u00e9sie.<\/p>\n
Je creuse, j\u2019explore, je cherche du temps pour allonger mon existence. Je ne suis peut-\u00eatre qu\u2019une vieille ardoise, mais en excellente sant\u00e9 malgr\u00e9 les al\u00e9as d\u2019une m\u00e9moire qui n\u2019en fait qu\u2019\u00e0 sa t\u00eate. J\u2019ai encore tellement \u00e0 dire avant de prendre le large. Tellement de questions \u00e0 \u00e9lucider, tellement de monde \u00e0 remercier de m\u2019avoir aim\u00e9e.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2665\ufe0f<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Plus j\u2019avance en \u00e2ge et plus j\u2019ai envie de sauter les cl\u00f4tures […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":63769,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-63768","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"The older I get, the more I\u2019m tempted to jump the fence of common sense. I realize that my life will come to an end sooner than later. I imagine a few scenarios. My wrinkling knees, my fingers climbing over each other, my awful forgetfulness and memory, which is becoming like a sieve.\r\n\r\nI scatter a few seeds in my declining cerebellum every day, and nothing grows. I try to write, search for evocative words, elaborate sentences, a new story to tell. I go on with my day and implore the angels. Could writing still be my morning prayer?\r\n\r\nVery early, often at the coffee shop, I write my story as if I will never die. Today (May 11, 2025), I celebrate Mother\u2019s Day, the day of mothers everywhere, and wonder where my three children are. All of them are in their fifties, and maybe it\u2019ll be their offspring that\u2019ll wish me \u201cHappy Mother\u2019s Day, Gran!\u201d before the end of the day.\r\n\r\nThat\u2019s how life goes, and so does my age, busy climbing higher than the clouds. I try to be strong but my memory is failing me. I live according to my inner weather, with its fog-shrouded and sun-lit days hidden within me.\r\n\r\nI see the yellow, dandelion-flecked grass, the uncomfortably cold water in the pool, the two groundhogs under my porch, a few young deer chewing on my cedar hedge. Outside, a few crows cling and flap on my sloped roof, fixing their eyes on a small yellow goldfinch with blackish wings. I quickly put on my old boots and fill all the bird feeders with sunflower seeds. Will the yellow bird build its nest close to my large kitchen windows? Am I in control of the situation? I sometimes get the impression that the sides of my big house are shrinking by the minute. The more I read, the more the books stack up, and the more I forget the themes of my book shelves.\r\n\r\nEvery morning, I write so that my life continues to be worth living. Fatherless mother, addicted to words, I always have a notepad nearby, one or two pens that don\u2019t stain my fingers, notes and a thousand more to remember, copy and tweak\u2026 My mind goes down unpredictable paths; a unique succession of lines all heading towards the empire of silence. Will I live much longer? I\u2019d like to fall asleep in a vast forest of firs. Lying on my back, I\u2019d breathe in the sublime fragrance of the trees. Without any tears or remorse, I\u2019d simply become nourishment for the earthworms.\r\n\r\nFor me, living is a pleasure that\u2019s starting to crease with worry. No more long trips in my Mini, spontaneous road trips and exhausted arrivals. I hope I can still imagine everything I haven\u2019t lived. Even love, this unstoppable vagabond. Would I have heard him if he had knocked on my door? I was too busy earning a living as a businesswoman; did all my success keep me from love? Even though my name is posted in large letters on more than 140 restaurant locations, who will remember me?\r\n\r\nI swear writing remains the best thing I can do to lighten the mental fog in my mind. For the last five years now, I\u2019ve been writing almost daily. I also often write at night in my bed when a nightmare wakes me with a start. I only drink water during the night so that my ideas can flow.\r\n\r\nI often feel that writing a story causes quivers in my mind that are increasingly difficult to define. Sometimes a title comes to me ready to be laid out on the page, an enigmatic line is forgotten, maybe a half-unearthed memory from my childhood in Gasp\u00e9sie.\r\n\r\nI dig, explore and search for time to extend my existence. I may be an old slate, but in excellent health despite the whims of a memory that seems to have a mind of its own. I still have so much to say before I head out to the open sea. So many questions to answer, so many people to thank for loving me.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2665\ufe0f"},"yoast_head":"\n