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Charles Pépin
if by magic and I hastily thank
the worker, jammed in his
box, never recognizing me.
I enjoy the little things, all of
these small miracles of life, a
gate that obeys, traffic lights
that turn green, a friend
who calls because they were
thinking about you, two
bodies that sleep together
perfectly entwined without
trying to do so. Louise, still
on the phone, is amused by
my lie. Mom was never in
the emergency room, she
was in the cancer wing, but
visitors can’t park within the
compounds of the hospital.
Visitors have to park outside
of the hospital and walk ten
minutes. I succeeded again
at parking under mom’s
window: the spot is always
open, as if it were reserved
for me. I really like this space.
There is a small lawn, no labor
to do, and you feel as if you
are in the country.
While closing my car door, I
notice a small, violet flower
by my foot, blooming in a
crack in the asphalt. How
did it manage to do that?
To emerge and grow while
escaping footsteps and tires?
Was it searching for the sun
that is caressingmy forehead?
I lift my eyes to the sky. It
seems to me that the clouds
speed by me abnormally,
that the wind pushes them to
make room for the sun.
2
This bouquet is perfect:
the yellow, the white, and
the foliage, which raises
everythingelse isexactlywhat
I wanted. I stride through the
never-ending corridors of
the hospital, contemplating
my bouquet when I run into
the doctor that takes care of
my mom. He has files under
his arm and a shirt buttoned