Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Charles Pépin

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.

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

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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

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