On November 22, my four and a half year old Rose wanted to tell me a story. We were both lying on my bed for a nap, but my granddaughter had decided otherwise.
Rose lived in March the horrible death of Ronron, this kitten that we had given her grandad and me, exactly one year ago. He rarely talks about it now. She simply says, “Purr is in cat heaven and he eats a lot of mice.”
This afternoon last November, she insisted on telling me a story, probably inspired by those her parents tell her. Allow me to offer it to you. I wrote it down verbatim.
The Dragon
“Once upon a time there was a three-headed dragon. He was alone and unique in his forest.
There was a little boy named Jacques. He entered the Forest of the Three-Headed Dragon. The latter had a head that spit fire, another crunched the trees and the third gave kisses.
The little boy Jacques decided to hang on to the head that was giving kisses. At this moment, the dragon was heading towards the village where little Jacques lived. All the inhabitants were afraid except Jacques who told them, “Do not be afraid because his head gives kisses.” All the inhabitants were no longer afraid and lined up behind Jacques. They all went to chop wood to make a good fire to warm up. ”
Rose then looked at me. “You see, Grandma, I too tell stories. And she gave me a kiss.
Having seen her very little during this year when I lived, like all of us, heartbreaks interspersed with unexpected moments of happiness as before the pandemic, I want to go through this day which celebrates the birth of a child longing for Rose’s story, which she guessed amazed me.
A church
Several months earlier, her grandad and I had taken her to the large stone church in front of her house. Inhabited by the silence and solemnity of the place, Rose was obviously impressed. “Who is the gentleman tied to the cross?” She whispered. I looked at my Catholic English. He replied that it was Jesus. Noticing the statue of the Virgin Mary above a side altar, I added, “You see the lady, it is the Blessed Virgin, the mother of Jesus”. “But why isn’t she with her child?” She asked me.
Rose believes in Santa Claus, but she does not ignore the crib where Mary and Joseph’s baby sleeps. She particularly admires the ox and the donkey which warm the little one, because Rose, she is never cold.
We must believe that children feel the love both incandescent and protective that their parents and grandparents have for them.
In this so disturbing period, it is through the very small children, those who still await Santa Claus with emotion, candor and palpitations that we will manage to extricate ourselves from daily anxieties.
I have kept intact in my memory the words of all the sacred Christmas carols. Tomorrow, I am going to tell Rose the story of a mother, her grandmother, who gave birth to a little Guillaume, her father, in December, a few days before Christmas. On the last night in the hospital, I took my baby Jesus to me and kept him warm stuck to my side all night, singing softly to him Holy night, The Angels in our countryside, Between the ox and the gray donkey and so many other songs, learned in my childhood.
I hope that one day Rose will take her turn with her baby to these sacred texts which rocked her daddy. In this way, cultural transmission will continue.
To all of you, dear readers, courage, patience and reassuring nostalgia in these harsh times.