Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Joy

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

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

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