Goodbye. Father

Author: (French) Barthélemy Rolin / Country:
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: The wind was blowing fiercely, yet it felt warm and comforting, signaling that another sunny day would arrive on the Atlantic coast in April. Night fell. I pedaled my bicycle around a corner, lifting my head slightly from the seat, then quickly rode forward. The rhythmic sound of the sea's waves rolled on, its breath; a shadow dashed between the streetlights, that was me. I rode fast, my feet pedaling faster, but my body remained agile. I didn’t expect to be so nimble. I increased the speed of my pedaling until my body started to feel uncomfortable, then stopped. I wasn’t rushing for the sake of it—I had to save my father, find a doctor immediately. I rushed to the city center, toward the hospital. I had already reached the small square, which was said to be haunted in the past, often filled with wax-like skeletons in short, vulgar blue work clothes, wandering about. Where did the old people go? Did they move the shelter? Did they dress them in noble clothes? Did they conquer death? What about those huge yellow wooden clogs on their exposed calves? And what about those berets? Heart. It must be the heart. Just past 50, his heart was like a capricious pump, no longer working hard for him. This was the belief (impression) left by my father when he reached the age of wisdom (50)—I was just 10 years old then. He knew it well, and besides, all the men in the family had passed away without warning in their prime. "Ah, I should have gone to the other world long ago," my father said. Or else, he would say, "No, back then, I would have already breathed my last." Whenever I heard such words, I would return to my room and cry quietly. Since childhood, I had realized that loved ones would leave this world silently, so I began to worry about my grandmother’s health. As she was elderly, in my eyes, she faced greater risks. On countless summer nights, I would climb out of bed to check her breathing, or else, when the roar of the sea waves came from afar, I would peek at the blanket covering her in the dim light, though it was hard to tell if it was moving. P1-2