\u00c0 l\u2019occasion de la f\u00eate des P\u00e8res, je partage avec vous ce r\u00e9cit\u00a0: le moment o\u00f9 j\u2019ai ressuscit\u00e9 la m\u00e9moire de mon p\u00e8re pour lui dire que je l\u2019aimais.<\/p>\n
Est-ce que je lui ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 dit? En pens\u00e9e, je le voyais devant moi, traverser la cuisine de Caplan. Son immense corps, qui pourtant me semblait l\u00e9ger comme une plume, avan\u00e7ait tel un fant\u00f4me d\u2019homme oubli\u00e9. Il ne parlait presque jamais \u00e0 maman. Elle-m\u00eame l\u2019ignorait la plupart du temps. Leurs conversations tournaient autour de ce qui s\u2019av\u00e9rait n\u00e9cessaire. Je me souviens de cette douloureuse tristesse qui minaient nos jeunes ann\u00e9es, \u00e0 mes s\u0153urs, fr\u00e9rot et moi, et celles des deux adultes s\u2019appelant Papa et Maman. Quels r\u00f4les jouaient-ils au juste dans nos existences, \u00e0 part travailler pour nous nourrir?<\/p>\n
Souvent, en soir\u00e9e, mon papa s\u2019ouvrait d\u2019un clic une petite bo\u00eete de sardines. Maman ripostait, je le savais trop. Elle le traitait d\u2019affam\u00e9; lui rappelait qu\u2019il \u00e9tait pourtant d\u00e9j\u00e0 bien assez gros. \u00ab\u00a0Aussi gros qu\u2019une montagne\u00a0\u00bb, qu\u2019elle r\u00e9p\u00e9tait \u00e0 la voisine Berthelot. Papa prenait la grosse bo\u00eete rouge de biscuits soda dans la d\u00e9pense, puis il ouvrait la porte vitr\u00e9e du buffet et y prenait l\u2019assiette rose de grand-maman Cora, sa m\u00e8re. Je savais qu\u2019il avait toujours un petit creux en soir\u00e9e, comme si un vorace chagrin d\u00e9vorait son c\u0153ur. \u00c7a me rendait triste de voir maman l\u2019insulter tandis qu\u2019il mangeait en silence. Papa \u00e9talait avec ses doigts deux petites sardines \u00e9t\u00eat\u00e9es et \u00e9goutt\u00e9es sur chaque craquelin. Puis, avec sa grande main, il noyait sa peine dans sa bouche toute grande ouverte. S\u2019ensuivaient les \u00ab\u00a0crounch crounch\u00a0\u00bb bien audibles des craquelins et des petites sardines aval\u00e9es d\u2019un coup. Est-ce que je lui ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 dit que je l\u2019aimais?<\/p>\n
Pour s\u2019amuser, la plus jeune grimpait parfois sur notre p\u00e8re \u00e9tendu\u00a0sur le divan. Assise \u00e0 cheval sur son ventre, elle agrippait de chaque c\u00f4t\u00e9 le tissu de sa chemise et donnait des coups de talons \u00e0 ses chairs d\u00e9j\u00e0 meurtries par la vie. \u00ab\u00a0Hop-l\u00e0!\u00a0\u00bb, criait\u00a0fr\u00e9rot qui essayait d\u2019attraper au lasso les gros pieds enfl\u00e9s de papa. \u00c0 tout coup, cette sc\u00e8ne mettait maman dans une de ces col\u00e8res! Elle m\u2019ordonnait aussit\u00f4t de faire cesser le man\u00e8ge, mon p\u00e8re se r\u00e9v\u00e9lant impuissant sur le sofa. Est-ce que je lui ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 dit que je l\u2019aimais?<\/p>\n
La nuit venue, j\u2019entendais parfois maman d\u00e9verser toute sa hargne sur mon p\u00e8re. Je pleurais, la t\u00eate enfouie sous l\u2019oreiller. Je pleurais encore lorsque papa partait le dimanche apr\u00e8s-midi ou le lundi matin avec sa valise de commis voyageur. Je devais chaque fois attendre cinq longs jours avant qu\u2019il ne revienne. Est-ce que je lui ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 dit que je l\u2019aimais?<\/p>\n
La veille de son d\u00e9part, lorsque maman repassait les\u00a0chemises et les deux pantalons de papa,\u00a0je l\u2019entendais rousp\u00e9ter \u00e0 propos de la grosseur de mon p\u00e8re. Elle devait s\u2019y prendre \u00e0 deux fois pour bien \u00e9tendre chaque jambe sur la planche \u00e0 repasser sans compter la fourche, les poches et l\u2019immense tour de taille de \u00ab\u00a0son \u00e9norme mari\u00a0\u00bb, comme elle le r\u00e9p\u00e9tait souvent. Elle rageait\u00a0en \u00e9tendant un carr\u00e9 de lin imbib\u00e9 d\u2019eau pour que la vapeur aide \u00e0 lisser le tissu. Le lendemain de son d\u00e9part, maman irait vider son sac de douleurs devant la voisine\u00a0Berthelot, mari\u00e9e \u00e0 un instituteur de l\u2019\u00e9cole du village aussi mince qu\u2019un manche \u00e0 balai. Quand mon papa quittait la maison pour aller gagner notre cro\u00fbte, est-ce que je lui ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 dit que je l\u2019aimais?<\/p>\n
Je ne connaissais rien de l\u2019amour \u00e0 cette \u00e9poque. En sais-je r\u00e9ellement plus aujourd\u2019hui? Enfant, je pleurais en cachette lorsque je voyais mon p\u00e8re triste ou bless\u00e9. Une fois mari\u00e9e, j\u2019ai sanglot\u00e9 en silence quand je devais affronter mon trop-plein de solitude. Toute jeune, je me doutais que quelque chose ne tournait pas rond entre mes parents. Je voyais nos voisins et je constatais que, chez nous, l\u2019affection entre les \u00e9poux manquait tous les rendez-vous. Il manquait les becs que le voisin\u00a0collait \u00e0 sa Laurette derri\u00e8re les oreilles; les sourires coquins qu\u2019ils s\u2019envoyaient et les fins de semaine pass\u00e9es en amoureux, sans enfants, au chalet. Entre nos parents, l\u2019essentiel manquait. M\u00eame fr\u00e9rot\u00a0avait m\u00eame mentionn\u00e9 \u00e0 grand-p\u00e8re Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric que papa ramenait la tristesse avec lui chaque vendredi soir lorsqu\u2019il revenait de ses voyages d\u2019affaires.<\/p>\n
Un jour, je devais avoir cinq ou\u00a0six ans, papa revint de voyage et m\u2019appela \u00ab\u00a0Coco\u00a0\u00bb. Un tout petit mot qui me semblait aussi doux que les oreilles d\u2019un chat. En comprenant qu\u2019il m\u2019appelait moi, Coco, pour la premi\u00e8re fois, mon c\u0153ur d\u2019enfant a trembl\u00e9 de bonheur. Comme si la patte du chat s\u2019\u00e9tait log\u00e9e dans la paume de ma main. Pendant toute la semaine qui a suivi, ce tout petit mot me rappelait le visage de papa; ses yeux allumant\u00a0des\u00a0\u00e9tincelles dans les miens. Est-ce que je lui ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 dit que je l\u2019aimais?<\/p>\n
Puis, un jour, nous avons quitt\u00e9 les falaises orang\u00e9es de mon enfance. Mais la tristesse a d\u00e9m\u00e9nag\u00e9 avec nous et s\u2019est install\u00e9e dans nos maisons \u00e0 Mont-Joli, \u00e0 Sainte-Foy, puis en banlieue de Montr\u00e9al, et finalement, m\u00eame s\u2019ils n\u2019\u00e9taient plus que deux, elle les aura suivis \u00e0 Sainte-Ad\u00e8le, jusqu\u2019\u00e0 la mort de papa. Je suis devenue, moi aussi, une adulte \u00e0 qui les mots doux, les regards tendres et les baisers manquaient.<\/p>\n
Comme je vous l\u2019ai \u00e9crit pr\u00e9c\u00e9demment, c\u2019est seulement aux fun\u00e9railles de maman que j\u2019appris la raison derri\u00e8re la lourdeur de leurs chagrins. Maman, amoureuse d\u2019un protestant anglophone, dut rompre avec lui. Mon grand-p\u00e8re a convaincu sa fille au c\u0153ur bris\u00e9 d\u2019\u00e9pouser un homme bon. Un homme qui l\u2019aimait comme un fou, mais qui n\u2019a\u00a0jamais pu la conqu\u00e9rir.<\/p>\n
Il arrive que l\u2019on sacrifie toute une vie dans l\u2019attente de quelques baisers ou mots tendres souffl\u00e9s derri\u00e8re les oreilles. On imagine l\u2019amour gros comme une montagne et, \u00e0 force d\u2019attendre, la montagne\u00a0nous engouffre, mais elle n\u2019est jamais assez grande pour remplir l\u2019absence d\u2019amour\u00a0dans notre pauvre c\u0153ur.<\/p>\n
Je n\u2019ai jamais r\u00e9ellement appris \u00e0 dire \u00ab\u00a0je t\u2019aime\u00a0\u00bb. Ces mots manquants, cette courte phrase pleine de sens demeur\u00e9e in\u00e9dite, a alourdi la tristesse que je c\u00f4toyais depuis l\u2019enfance. Aujourd\u2019hui, vieillotte aguerrie, l\u2019id\u00e9e m\u2019est enfin venue de ressusciter mon p\u00e8re pour lui dire que je l\u2019aimais.<\/p>\n
Oui, je t\u2019aime, papa ch\u00e9ri. Tu as \u00e9t\u00e9 mon premier amour et, je ne l\u2019esp\u00e8re point, tu seras sans doute mon dernier. Si possible, envoie-moi de l\u00e0-haut un ange voulant se mat\u00e9rialiser; un \u00eatre bon au c\u0153ur bienveillant, un homme que j\u2019aimerai autant que je t\u2019ai aim\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Ta Coco ch\u00e9rie.<\/p>\n
Bonne f\u00eate \u00e0 tous les P\u00e8res!
\n\ud83d\udc96<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u00c0 l\u2019occasion de la f\u00eate des P\u00e8res, je partage avec vous ce […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":64825,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-64822","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"For Father\u2019s Day, I\u2019m sharing this story with you: the time I resuscitated my Father\u2019s memory to tell him I loved him.\r\n\r\nDid I ever tell him? In my head, I see him in front of me, crossing the kitchen floor in Caplan. His large body, suddenly as light as a feather, moving like the ghost of a forgotten man. He almost never spoke to Mom. For her part, she ignored him most of the time. Their conversations were restricted to what was necessary. I remember the painful sorrow that haunted my sisters, my brother and I during those early years as well as the two adults we called Mom and Dad. What roles did they play in our lives besides working to feed us?\r\n\r\nOften, at night, Dad opened a small can of sardines in just one pull. It would set mom off. I knew it all too well. She\u2019d call him insatiable and remind him that he was already fat enough. \u201cAs large as the house,\u201d she\u2019d complain to Mrs. Berthelot, our neighbour. Dad grabbed the big red box of crackers in the pantry, opened the glass door of the cabinet and took the red plate that belonged to Granny Cora, his mother. I knew he always got a small craving at night, a voracious grief devouring his heart. It made me sad to see Mom insult him while he sat there eating in silence. Dad would take two headless, drained sardines with his fingers and lay them out on a cracker. Then, with his large hand, he\u2019d drown his sorrow in his wide-open mouth. Then came the audible \u201ccrunch, crunch\u201d of the sardines and crackers being dispatched in one go. Did I ever tell him I loved him?\r\n\r\nFor fun, the youngest one sometimes clambered on top of Dad when he was stretched out on the couch. Sitting astride his belly, she\u2019d grab his shirt and kick her heels into his sides, his flesh already bruised by life. \u201cYee haw!\u201d yelled my brother who tried to catch Dad\u2019s swollen feet with a lasso. Inevitably, this game threw Mom into a fit of rage. She\u2019d immediately order me to put an end to the nonsense, as Dad laid helpless on the couch. Did I ever tell him I loved him?\r\n\r\nWhen night came, I sometimes heard Mom vent her hostility on Dad. I cried, my head under the pillow. I sobbed again when Dad left on Sunday afternoon or Monday morning with his travelling salesman\u2019s suitcase. I had to wait five long days before he\u2019d return home. Did I ever tell him I loved him?\r\n\r\nThe day before his departure, as Mom ironed Dad\u2019s shirts and two pairs of pants, I\u2019d hear her grumble about Dad\u2019s size. She had to extend each leg twice on the ironing board, plus do the crotch, the pockets and the huge waistline of \u201cher enormous husband,\u201d as she often repeated. Infuriated, she\u2019d apply a damp square of linen to help smooth the fabric. The day after he left for work, Mom would empty her bag of heartache in front of Mrs. Berthelot, who was married to a schoolteacher as skinny as a broomstick. When Dad left home to provide for us, did I ever tell him I loved him?\r\n\r\nI knew nothing about love in those days. Do I really know any more now? As a child, I cried in secret when I saw Dad sad or hurt. Once married, I sobbed in silence when I had to face my overwhelming solitude. I was still very young and could tell that something wasn\u2019t right between my parents. I observed our neighbours and noticed that, in our home, there was no affection between the parents. No kisses behind the ear that our neighbour gave his wife; no exchange of mischievous smiles or weekend trips to the cottage without the kids. Between our parents, the essential was absent. Even my brother had mentioned to Grandpa Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric that Dad brought sadness back with him every Friday night when he\u2019d return from his travels.\r\n\r\nOne day, I must\u2019ve been five or six, Dad came back from a trip and called me \u201cCoco.\u201d A small word that felt as soft as a kitten\u2019s ears. The first time I heard him calling me Coco, my young heart shivered with happiness. As if the cat\u2019s paw had found its way into the palm of my hand. For the entire week that followed, that short word reminded me of Dad\u2019s face, his eyes lighting sparkles in mine. Did I ever tell him I loved him?\r\n\r\nThen, one day, we left the orange cliffs of my childhood. But sorrow always moved with us, settling in at each subsequent home: in Mont-Joli, Sainte-Foy, in the suburbs of Montreal and, finally, in Sainte-Ad\u00e8le. By that time, it was only the two of them. Dad passed away there, and the sorrow disappeared with him. In turn, I became an adult who also never knew the sweet nothings, tender looks and kisses enjoyed between husband and wife.\r\nAs I\u2019ve written in a previous letter, I only learned about the reasons for their heavy grief at Mom\u2019s funeral. Mom had been in love with a Protestant anglophone but was forced by the town priest and family to leave him. My grandfather convinced his broken-hearted daughter to marry a good man. A man who was crazy for her but who was never able to win her heart.\r\n\r\nSometimes, we sacrifice a whole life in the hopes of a few kisses or tender words whispered behind our ear. We imagine love as big as a mountain and, while we wait in vain, the mountain engulfs us. Big as it may be, it\u2019s never enough to fill the void of love in our poor hearts.\r\n\r\nI never really learned to say \u201cI love you.\u201d Those absent words, that unspoken, brief declaration full of meaning hung heavy on the sorrow I lived with since childhood. Today, an old woman, I decided to resuscitate my dad to tell him I loved him.\r\n\r\nYes, I love you, dearest Dad. You were my first love and you may just very well be my last, although I hope that won\u2019t be true. If you can, send me an angel from above, Dad, one who will take human shape as a good, kind-hearted man, who\u2019ll love as much as I loved you.\r\n\r\nYour sweet Coco.\r\n\r\nHappy Father\u2019s Day to all dads!\r\n\ud83d\udc96"},"yoast_head":"\n