Thankfully Fran is trying to make my transition into back to school a thousand times easier by being ridiculously cold to me. Saturday morning she told me how much she had missed me, and then, Saturday evening, when I said i was planning on leaving on the tenth she decided to stop speaking to me.
I'd rather she had just yelled at me and we could have had it out, and me crying everywhere, and her feeling awful about it, instead of this persistent, subtle emotional erosion. Both Sunday and monday she has yelled at me for stupid things, and both times i have been to the point of almost crying and then today I ran out when she refused to wish me a goodnight and to my car where i sobbed for the first time in a year. This happens every summer. Something always brings me to tears. And it's usually work related. This is usually the only thing that can make me cry. and then I'd begin to think about all of this summer's sadness and it just kept coming, and I kept replaying the day's most imperfect moments and the corners of my mouth pulled down and everything was coming out. I stood in the back yard trying to force my key into the door, hiccuping and wondering if medhi was in his backyard, listening. And then i stood in the shower and I couldn't tell what was tears and what was water, I thought this would make the blotchy i-have-been-uncontrollably-crying look on my face go away. but it didnt matter because when I got out I still looked like I had just been smacked around by my deadbeat husband.
I don't remember sad things. I do not. It is part of the way I have survived so many years, my impeccably selective memory. Thus, every time I come home I am surprised by how many pitfalls I find myself in again and again, and I am always astonished by my inability to see them coming. I am so good at getting up again. But, man, I am so tired of falling.
It's hard when you're so full up with love that you forget what your hunger is.
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À propos du Petit Prince, on peut lire un récit au livre (en espagnol) Este Sol de la Infancia (écrit par Saiz de Marco). Son titre est «Ce n´est pas un mot ».
CE N´ EST PAS UN MOT
Ce matin j´ai rentré au temps, cours de franÇais, treize ans, quand Marie dit « Nous allons lire Le Petit Prince ». C´est un livre étrange, avec d´ émotions connues qu´ on ne peut pas exprimer. Chaque jour deux pages, mais maintenant c´ est impossible de s´ arrêter. J´ai besoin de le lire entier, donc je cherche au dictionnaire les mots que j´ ignore. Cependant « baobab » n´apparait pas. Je demande à Marie et elle me dit « ce n´est pas un mot franÇais, c´ est un arbre africain ».
C´ est à cause des baobabs que le Petit Prince est venu à la Terre. Il avait besoin d´ un agneau qui mangeait les burgeons de baobabs, avant qu´ ils grandissaient et faisaient éclater son petit astre.
Ce matin nous avons fait l´ essai. Ces singes s´ alertent entre eux quand ils voient un prédateur. Si celui qui attaque est un aigle, ils font un son pour que leurs compagnons se cachent aux arbustes ; si celui qui vient est un félin, ils font un son différent por leur dire qu´ ils doivent grimper à un arbre. Quelques zoologistes appelons « proto-mots » à ces sons. Et ce matin, quand le singe était près de notre poste d´ observation, je l´ ai écouté. Quand le singe a vu qu´ une lionne s´ approchait, il a ouvert ses lèvres et a dit clairement « baobab ».
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