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Joy
always knew how to reduce
tensions, to diffuse conflicts
with simple words and a
gift of putting everything in
perspective.
It is never the same words
but always the same thing
that we hear, the same face
we all see. The same smile
that is on the coffin and that
makes the funeral seem like a
lie, that smile which is there
before us, so much realer
than the coffin. The smile of
a sunny woman. Equal and
sweet. “She got that from
our mother, explains one
of my aunts in her speech,
from our mother who lived
through history and war and
the worst of the worst but
whom we always knew as so
happy, heart in hand and a
gleam in her eyes.”
Suddenly I realize I haven’t
dared to look at my father, I
must have been afraid that
he would break down, but I
see that he approves, almost
with pride, as if he was not
able to get over rediscovering
his wife to this extent. He had
warned me, as did Mathieu,
that he would not speak, that
it was beyond his abilities,
but I see that he is satisfied
by what he hears. Me as
well, certainly, but my job,
standing in front of everyone
with my paper in hand,
calling them up one after the
other, managing the employ
of the funeral ceremonies,
and starting the music clips,
prevents me from being fully
there. And then there is a
pain in my knee, like a needle
that jabs me every time I put
weight on my right leg. I try
to find a position that gives
me a break but I can’t find it.
The first musical interlude
is a song by Nina Simone.
Mathieu chose it; she is sad
and happy, full of violence
and full of life. We have been
really lucky with this sun. I
think mom’s watching us and