All this whiteness that surrounds us. This vast comforter adorned with crystals, each one unique in its kind. This extreme cold slaps masked jaded passers-by. Invisible breaths under the bright sun. No need for a passport to escape the gloom of the people, the confined crestfallen faces, the redundant, damning news reports.
And then on this winter evening without a curfew, I am allowed to turn my back on solitude. The rebellious full moon reminds me of this octogenarian uncle who has just passed away. How many elders have died in two years? Pandemic, indomitable pandemic. You separate us, you divide us, you bore us. Haven’t you stolen enough of our time with your mania for curbing our momentum? In my mind, which wanders on the fifth wave, Nelligan’s poem, Claude Léveillée version, interferes. It’s the spleen of your long agony, Uncle André. Like so many other old people, you couldn’t stand this viral thief of links, of laughter, of affections kept at a distance. You lost your bearings, your anchors, you sailed blind, you just left your island. For ever.
Our winter spleens of bereaved gather like tectonic plates floating according to the movements of the ocean of our uncertainties. One more drop and everything can change. No need for a passport to cross the threshold of the labyrinth of our vulnerabilities.
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