Éternelle éternité?! Existe-t-elle, je m’interroge?

Technically, we are all dying. Every minute we spend alive is a minute closer to death. We don’t think about what’s across the street while we are still in our homes. We are too busy reading the newspaper, doing laundry, making love, drinking wine. Nous sommes trop distraits. But the graveyard is there, vast and expressionless, like a fat businessman on the escalator you can’t brush past.

On that particular day, you watch her on the bed. You feel helpless. You tear at yourself from the inside from frustration. She smiles at you as if she is fine, but you know she is lying and it hurts to know that. You grab her hand and tell her that everything is going to be okay. When the words come out it feels like you have committed a crime, for you know and she knows that what you have said isn’t true.

You see her smile. You try and smile back, but all you can do is hold back the tears. Vous êtes désolé de l’avoir déçu à chaque instant de votre vie, you are sorry for lying to her face, you are sorry for keeping secrets from her, you feel like bursting into tears. You can’t let her see you cry as she needs you to be stronger than her.

You have seen tears fall silently from her face. You’ve heard her weep. You feel like there’s nothing you can do to make right the years you’ve tread on so carefree. All you can do is tell her how much you love her. You know it’s not enough.

You were five and she was still young. She picked you up from school and you told her stories about the pictures you drew and how much you missed your grandfather. You showed her the picture of you in between her and your grandfather. You are now 25. Your grandfather is on the hospital bed. He has suffered a minor, but second stroke. You both have no one to turn to. There is no one to ask for help.

You feel her hand on yours and you know that she feels comforted by your presence beside her. “This isn’t fair mom,” you say. “It shouldn’t be him in this bed. He deserves so much more than this. It isn’t fair,” you say. You can feel the tears coming. You hold back your sobs. You can’t let your mother see you like this, you reason. “I don’t understand,” you say. “Je ne comprends pas.”

“Dad,” she says. You can see her eyes. She is looking at him. “I’ve been a terrible daughter.” She holds on to his hand and she can tell that he can only see one thing — her child. No, he seems to say. I’ve loved you, and always will love you, no matter what. Miraculously, you see him rise from the bed and he embraces her so tight she feels the air leave her lungs. She feels wetness on the side of her neck. She feels tears flowing down her face, tears trickled down her cheeks. No one had ever seen her cry. Capable of tears – yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now it had come. They both convulse as they both sob, et tu sais au fond de toi qu’il est temps pour lui de vous dire au revoir!

Now I am so afraid of dying. I am so afraid of slipping away into a space I couldn’t imagine, or worse, dans le néant, without leaving behind something in this world. It’s not that I felt I was being brave sitting so close to a dying person. It made me realise the permanence of death. And then you came and said “I would not want to be her.” I replied that “it’s not that bad.” I cringe. I realize I don’t want to be her either. All I can think about now is the shape my tear made on the floor the night, the hour, the moment that he died.