At 7:23 PM I still was a pathetic has-been. And the minute after I looked up and everything changed.
Tattoo is very trendy. Someday I will talk about that if you wish to. Today I felt trendy, unwillingly.
Those who told you they saw my father cry have lied to you. I damn their souls, all of them. It’s not fair to say that. They have never seen my father cry.
Life is a bitch that never asks you anything. For me it’s at 7:24 PM, French time zone, that life tattooed in the flesh of my heart a memory that I feel like being indelible. It’s not tattooed, it’s engraved. With a fork. Some eyes look like swimming pools. I can’t swim. So let me give you an advice: keep your nose in your plate when the hyena howls her call inside your head.
Sometimes you hesitate, but eventually no, it would be too foolish, too tragic-shitty to burst your eyes with your fork, even though sometimes seeing what you see hurts you damn.
It hurts so much inside, but the voice choking in my throat cannot be written, or I would write it…
It was last year to the day, she was dead. Did you know that die has only one syllable because you only die once ?
It was one year ago. Mom didn’t want us to go there. She went there with dad. They came back. I have never seen my father cry.
Granny. We called our paternal grandmother Granny. But we won’t call her ever again. Life fucks us. Sooner or later. Sorrow. You know.
Dad doesn’t cry. Doesn't he know, huh, mom, doesn't dad know ? Mom keeps silent. Doesn’t she know ? Doesn’t she know how to say why dad doesn’t cry ? Or simply she doesn’t know ?
I do even cry when I watch mushy movies on Tuesday nights in the dark with mom when she pretends to knit so that I don’t see her tears. When I blend in the dark so that my tears don’t… it’s stupid…
some sentences are better left sinking into the white of the page. And some tears in the dark…
Why dad doesn’t cry ?
It was one year ago, did everybody forget ?
« Time to eat! »
My father’s skin is cracked like a rocky gulch. The dryness of the ground of this skin that never saw water. Granny died last year. June 23rd 2004, that’s what is written on her grave. Her son’s first name is Gilbert. He’s my father. My father whose skin is like a time-worn leather, and whose faded blue eyes exist nowhere else than in my sister’s eyes who has the most beautiful eyes in the world. Why dad doesn’t cry ?
Before now I never asked me this: why dad doesn’t cry ?
When the five of us eat in silence around the kitchen’s Formica table, in our plates the freetchfreetch of our forks is like the sound of a swords’ duel. It looks like it will end up with an ugly wound. And then there was the sniffing. Like a harmonica mooing. « Oh no » I thought… I had this thought like you could think about seeing a small rabbit being squashed by a truck because you can’t help it, except that here I had this thought slowly, with no emergency. Just like in slow motion. I thought « Oh no… »
Which one of us would dare looking up from his plate ? Shit, none of us is going to raise his bloody face ? Look at your beefsteak a voice was saying in my head look at your beefsteak. Swords were playing forks in the bloody meat. Another voice, a bitch and tormenting voice, shrilled in my head, distorted my heart: watch your father crying.
So I looked up.
19h24, translated by Valentina. Every correction, improvement, proofreading or subtleties are more than welcome. That's what the comments are for…If you're bilingual, a translator, an English teacher or simply very gifted in English, and if you wish to participate more actively to the translation of my texts, you can contact me by email (in French please!)