Friday, June 15, 2007
perhaps the hardest thing for me, is to be honest to myself.
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" Who is he, Mummy?" a girl of about four years old tugged her mother's hand, asking innocently while pointing at the boy who had begun chatting on his phone again as he slid into a chauffeured Merc.
But the mother did not seem to hear her daughter's question. Her eyes were still upon the Merc which was slowly moving out of view.
"Who is he, Mummy?" the little girl with messy ribboned plaits badgered a little more loudly. "We see him every week when we come for breakfast."
The statement hung in midair, drawing the attention of a few in the queue and they too, looked expectantly at the mother.
But she did not notice. Her eyes were still clouded over, a little preoccupied, a little lost.
Unnerved and vaguely aware that they were intruding into something, the inquisitive bystanders gradually averted their gazes, preferring to return to their incessantly beeping gadgets.
"An old friend." she finally whispered; the words spoken so softly it was as though she feared them with their scent of secrecy lingering past her lips.
But her daughter did not hear this. Freshly baked jam pastries were far more enticing than a mother's murmured confessions.
The unheard answer sifted between the heat, haste and headiness of the cafe and out through its glass doors, dispersing into the cacophony of traffic, floating on the drifts of dry air above the cars.
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un moment à se rappeler
. a moment to remember.
