- Drip-drip -
Why are you the only not to ask me, mom?
Crocheton is in bed. My mother is sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes are in vagueness as when one would like to be elsewhere. Mom is not here. Why don’t you want to know, mom, why don’t you?
Mom is beautiful. Her voice seems to come from an unknown place. Like from far away. Just like in the movies, when one hears a voice from beyond the grave. Except that it is mom's voice , I can recognize it. Why what Crocheton? she asks.
It's like a shell or a fortress which would be occupied by a ghost, like a haunted house, my mother, you never know who will open the door. The householder or a spectre?
They all ask why I did that, you know, they all ask but you.
The odour which reigns here, is like something which one cannot laugh at. The odour of a hospital is like a sadness which tears your eyes off. It is of an unbearable cleanliness.
I heard a doctor tell dad that no Sir, no it's not just a question of an emergency call and that yes Sir, yes it's true, he would be dead if your wife…
The fortune of a mum who has a premonition of something.
The will of a son to die.
Crocheton committed suicide. It was this morning.
Dad said “this shall not spread… you understand, I am a church man…”
Why mom, whimpers Crocheton, why do you not ask me why? Why do you tell nothing mom why?
And then mom moved her hand and it looked like she were a sleepwalker with her eyes focused on the drip of the perfusion. Mom's hand then alighted on Crocheton's hand.
In the garden when we were children with Crocheton, when the summer browned us, our laughters burst into the rain of the garden hose, we laughed so much at sprinkling like that! I was eight years old and I doubled the pipe in order to avoid the shower and Crocheton stupidly looked why water did not squirt any more and I released all and wham he took all in the eye, oh so many laughters!
Crocheton wanted to die. He didn't even warn me. If he had told me, I would have left with him. I don't want to stay by myself.
What is in mom's head. A little bit of her life? A little bit of this tragedy which is hers? Or simply nothing?
Mom's hand alighted on Crocheton's hand. Silence. Everything is white here. Hospital odour.
Why are you the only one who didn't ask me, mom? They all ask why I did that, you know, they all ask but you. Why do you tell nothing mom why?
Mom smiled. Crocheton clammed up.
Mom said you know…
“You know…”
Softly.
She said “you know”, softly.
A four seconds silence…
a drop in the perfusion…
a drop in the perfusion…
a drop in the perfusion…
a drop in the perfusion…
and then she added, at the precise moment in which the skin of her palm was closing on Crocheton's fingers: “my son…”. Then I was eight years old and my throat choked just like a garden hose which one would twist and not a word could have come out from there… and then the water by my eyes spewed out and I couldn't help it. Crocheton snuggled up. Mom closed her love over him.
And I sobbed my brother's name and I listened to him sobbing “mom”.
Goutte à goutte, 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!)