You have to imagine a big house on the edge of a frozen lake, solid like the heart of the man who built it, planted in the world with grandeur. You have to imagine the six-foot tree, the balls trying in vain to catapult joy, the lights not strong enough to thaw anything. You have to imagine the crib where Mary tries to stitch up her virginity to continue to make Joseph believe that the conception is immaculate. You have to imagine the star who knows that she is not from Bethlehem but who nevertheless does her job of decoy with a certain nobility. You have to imagine the cry of children, the smell of turkey with cranberries, the not too expensive sparkling wine and the music that repeats that long live the wind and listen to the bells. In short, you have to imagine Christmas at the Ouellet’s.
The scene could resemble all those that have accumulated in Gaëlle’s memory to form something like “her holiday season narrative”. But around the table where the beast seems to be menstruating red fruits, there is an absence that takes up all the space. Blue eyes, not there. A soft smile, not there. Arms, legs, a belly, a heart, a nose, a smell, not there.
The first absence.
While the children are made to believe that Santa Claus exists, Gaëlle hopes that someone will make them believe that her mother is going to go through the chimney to come and tell her to let go of her guilt. To say that frankly, dying isn’t sooooooo much worse than that, in fact, there are super carbonaras in his parallel world where ghosts don’t even need alcohol to feel light. Worse to whisper, in passing, that the medical error that led to her being isolated in psychiatry instead of being surrounded by the love of her family a few days before her death, is a medical error. “Do you have that, a medical degree, Gaëlle? » that Gaëlle would like her mother to tell her by changing the subject, all smiles, the air of wanting someone in her daughter to move on. But that’s what’s boring with adulthood; there is no one who makes the effort to create legends around your pain.
“Mommy, mommy, look, came there! Look at the tracks in the garden! He came to fill them! »
Gaëlle smiled at her daughter, the most vibrant example that life still makes more noise than death. She hides grandpa’s boots full of snow, opens her arms wide, plunges her nose into her child’s neck, and clings to a little present moment in her heart. Around her, little hands and wondering eyes hurry to dive into the bottom of the Christmas stockings.
Through the joyful chaos of childhood apologizing for nothing, Gaëlle hears the whisper of someone ordering her to turn around. Worse there, through the steamy window of a Christmas where people are crying in the cottage, she sees her.
She’s there. His gorgeous mother. Standing in the snow, unimpressed by it, her, the cold on her bare feet. She doesn’t have a sleigh, she doesn’t have reindeer, she doesn’t even have a gift bag. She’s just there, blowing her smile on Gaëlle’s face, as if to say “I’m waiting for you”. While the little ones rave about the treasures in their socks, Gaëlle puts on her coat, her boots, her courage and goes out without telling anyone.
Outside, the pungent winter air mingles with the ghostly smell of his mother. For the first time since her departure, Gaëlle feels “together”. The silence is louder than the howl of the wind. The two women observe each other with the grandeur of those who recognize each other everywhere. Gaëlle would like to throw herself into her arms, beg her to rock her, to kiss her, to cover her body with a soft blanket, to beg her to sing her one last song, to console her, to cut her an orange into quarters, begging her to soothe something inside her. But she remains there, her heart beating, her body suspended between all her ages, dazzled by the only real miracle of Christmas that can make her want to say thank you.
As she expects her mother to confess around the mysteries of life, death, the beyond and the inside, Gaëlle is struck to see her start dancing at the middle of the snow. His whole body free. So free. She dances ugly but beautiful. With mighty rage; the rage to say continues, my daughter. Her hair catches in the wind, her dress too, the wind catches in her mother, the wind, her mother, her, as if propelled into a dance of bodies saying goodbye to each other at the same time that I am there, that I remain there.
Gaëlle keeps everything with her eyes, the projector of memories trained on the incandescent face of her aurora borealis mother.
The time Mom gets up every hour to touch her forehead. The time when mom says “come my baby come you can walk yes bravo bravo tape tape bravo”. The time Mom leads her through the city, through herself, through time. The time when the words exceed the heart. The time mom is home. The time when mom is the grandma. The time when mom is the whole family with her way of being the Christmas tree, the gifts and the heat of the fire.
The time it was the last Christmas with her. The time Gaëlle didn’t know.
“I always liked it when you asked me too many questions, even though I told you otherwise. Every time you worried, you were right to, even if I told you otherwise. Every hug you gave me allowed me to push just high enough to carry my body into the world, even if I told you otherwise. »
” I know. »
Gaëlle hears the echo of silence too much to hear that the children, grandpa, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, are outside, behind her, with her. In the snow and in the night, their bodies also dance. Worse in silence, are grafted their laughter, their joys, the rhythm of their love. Worse if the star of Bethlehem could have said something, she would probably have shouted that “Hey! It’s this way ! This is where it breathes! »
Worse, as in all Christmas stories where miracles come from the sky, the firmament and its colors begin to waltz. Red, green, violet, blue split the horizon into two and four. The dawns recall their dead; on the other side also the festivities will begin.
You have to imagine little Ouellet’s smile that night. Solid as the belief that the absent are dancing somewhere in the backyard.