Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Odile Cornuz


(an alert elderly woman)

I press the button to open the door of the bus. It opens: that always startles me. Bus doors always open suddenly, abruptly, even if you’re expecting them to, having pressed the button! And him, next to me, he wants to laugh, I know he does, when he sees me jump like that. He thinks it’s ridiculous when an old woman can’t control all the little motions of daily life. He has grown. He’s adopted the sullen air of an adolescent, perched on his scooter. I look at him. I don’t know what to think. I have no idea if he still likes these afternoons with his grandmother. I have the feeling my daughter makes him tell me he likes them. As for me, I can see perfectly well, when he meets his friends on the street, that he’d rather go off with them! Oh, it’s normal, but I still would rather he not forget me. I’m not losing my memory. I remember what it’s like to be young: you want to be independent. I give him a kiss on both cheeks and I put the hood of his jacket down around his shoulders. I tell him, “See you next week.” I put my foot on the first step—darn! The door closes right then! That’s progress, that’s civility for you these days! You always have to rush—there’s no time to say goodbye to your grandson. The door opens again, after


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