Automne canadien. Ardente et transparente agonie des feuillages : le baiser du soleil après la morsure du gel. Puisse notre mort ressembler à celle de ces feuilles d’érable : se laisser successivement briser par la douleur et transfigurer par la grâce…
-Gustave Thibon
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La promenade est un art amoureux, un art du tissage. Le mouvement des corps et celui des pensées, le fou rire d’un ruisseau et l’effarouchement des bêtes sous les buissons, tout va ensemble, tout fait une seule étoffe, entrelaçant l’air et le songe, le visible et l’invisible.
Christian Bobin, Isabelle Bruges
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Once upon a time, on a morning like this, I would have written that I had awoken to a breeze coming in from the window. The scent of last night’s rain still lingers on the air, its cooler temperature a signal that the seasons have begun that almost imperceptible shift from summer to fall.
I would have written that my love is asleep near me, his body tangled in the covers, his head burrowed under the pile of pillows. The rise and fall of his chest adjusts to the rhythm of the birds singing outside. After an evening of shopping, cooking, talking, and movie-watching, he is sleeping in. I, on the other hand, eternally unable to stay in bed for hours, am up after a mere few hours of sleep. I’m tired, but there’s still so much to do: listen to the wind in the trees; watch the songbirds pick at the greenery as it turns golden; steal crabapples from the neighbour’s tree across the back lane.
I would have written that we have the whole weekend ahead of us; so much time for laughing, walking, debating, loving. Breakfast in bed, camping out, discovering curiosities in the city, or just doing mundane everyday tasks that somehow became enjoyable when done together. Weekends here remain just that, a collection of things: quiet mornings, late nights, Subway before 11, layer upon layer of blankets and sleeping bags, Delicje, a walk in a park or down city streets, making bruschetta in the apartment kitchen, grocery shopping in small ethnic shops and oversized warehouses, Grand Prix, movies, music, “mushroom mushroom“, hot showers, the bed…
Once upon a time, I would have written all of those things. Now, today, on this perfect end-of-summer morning, with the smell of rain in the air and the remnants of sleep all around me, which words should I use?
Comments rss TrackbackWhen an illness knocks you on your ass, you should stay down and relax for a while before trying to get back up. (Candea Core-Starke)
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