Posted at 9:00 a.m.
21st of August. 5:30 p.m. Island time. I’m sitting with my parents and my tour director at the Magdalen Islands airport. Heart racing. Hair mixed up. My skin tastes like cold sea salt. I can’t wait to come back for a swim. My body is in mourning for the calm of the valleys and the breeze that rocks my nights. I am well. I’m too good. I don’t want to go home.
The direct flight which must take off at the same time as ours is postponed until an hour later because of the raging storm. Ours is on time.
We have two stops to make before arriving in Montreal. Just thinking about it, I’m exhausted. But the sweet memory of my trip pushes away the negative cloud that hovers over my head.
The first flight is going as planned. Good. Quick. Too long for the time I have to live. It’s inevitable, I have to endure the time dragging on.
The second flight to Quebec has begun. Halfway, the sky darkens, we are told to fasten our seat belts. I tell myself that the only fault of the Islands is the way to get there. Small planes trouble me. As in a car that has no suspension, you feel everything. The vibrations squeeze my heart, but it’s temporary.
Usually it is temporary. This time it’s permanent. We are in the storm. The sky is black and angry.
No matter how hard I try to convince myself that this is normal, I can feel the anxiety rising in each passenger on board our nightmare. My mother is sitting next to me. She closes her eyes and breathes. It’s normal. She often does this on the plane. It’s when I see her praying in Arabic that panic seizes me. From my head. Of my future which may be short and non-existent.
I try to calm her down by digging my nails into her tense thigh.
Bang. Another cloud hits the plane. The prayers are in Spanish. Normally, I would laugh at her thinking that by calling out to different gods, normal time will recover. I am unable to laugh. I try to comfort her by telling her that it will be fine.
Boom. The airplane veers sharply to the right. I want to vomit. My mother says in French that it’s not our time. That we are too young to die. I reassure myself by telling myself that if I have to die, I won’t leave my mother in mourning. We will be together.
I try to scroll my life in my head so as not to think of the steel hull being screeched by the storm. It’s not easy to think back to the beautiful memories of our life when our life is heading towards the end. The only image that comes to mind is Marie-Soleil Tougas. I had just seen the documentary and I said to myself that she had perhaps gone through this fear before sinking into an eternal black hole. I’m almost convinced this is the end. My mother reverts to Arabic. I cry softly.
I think back to the Islands. To the childish cries of my mother in the water of the sea which howls its joy. The last text I sent to my friend Dave in which I sulked. To my two dogs who will no longer be able to lick my face. To the smell of Doritos from their paws that would comfort me right now.
When you face the shadow of death, the adrenaline is so strong that you feel ready to face it. More control. We let go so quickly that everything floats.
And it is when the acceptance of our destiny is started that everything returns to normal. Everything calms down. Our breathing stabilizes.
I look at my mother and tell her: “I was sure to die. »
And she answered me: “It was not our time. »
I dry my tears with the inside of my sweater and quietly loosen my claws on my mother’s thighs.
It was not our time.