Her memory tears and wears away, little by little, like an old cloth that has served too much.
She was looking to the door and she said : « My grand-mother is behind this door. I have to see her. »
I observed : « But Mum, there is nobody outside. Your grand-mother can’t be there. ».
She tried to explain : « I believed that I lost myself like if I had forgotten her. »
And she added, trying to convince me or maybe herself : « But no. It is really my grand-mother… »
In listening to her, I thought she lives, from now on, with the ghosts of her past who appear and disappear at the mercy of her souvenirs. Like waves these ones come and go. And she drags me away in her world that I want it or not. But strangely enough, I am confortable in this one… sometimes.
Yesterday, my father was alive again. She talked about him as if she was sure this one soon will open the door, coming back to his job. I smiled and I let myself dream it was possible. Yes, it would be nice to believe that, to hear his voice again just once. And I feel some kind of sad joy to listen my mother talking about my father in this way.
But yesterday too, for some minutes, I disappear. She asked me in the evening : « Do you know where is V. ? ». I answered : « V., it’s me. I am here. »
« Are you sure ? »
Great question Mother ! Am I sure if I am myself ? Not always, I could answer. But I chose to just say : « Yes, I am sure ! »
« How strange, I didn’t recognize you ! » She answered disturbed…
Sometimes I wake up afraid that, one day, I shall become nothing more than a lost picture that slowly and forever fades away in my mother’s soul. Yes sometimes I am afraid to view behind the door.