She celebrated her one hundred and one years ago yesterday. His hair is thin, bright white. His electric blue eyes inspect around. It does not really know where she is. Hospital, nursing home, whatever. Huddled in her wheelchair, wrapped in a cloth, pale yellow (in) hospitable, she will hear nothing of what was said. We are talking about it. His health, his lifestyle. She looks a little bewildered. It grasps nothing: she is deaf as a post. The beautiful middle of the conversation between her friend came with him to visit the pre-admissions and the medical establishment, she burst out: " My legs, they were broken, both! It was war! " . She climbed the stairs to her home. The apartment was located in the Marais. One building was hit by the bomb. The one where she lived with her parents, who did not come out alive.
Today, she is there, our centennial, a survivor of life, war and time. His legs are smooth, beautiful, we guess only a few scars. The doctor asks him by gestures, to rise, de faire quelques pas. La vieille dame obtempère. Elle prend appui sur les accoudoirs du fauteuil, puis décolle, toute légère, et se redresse immédiatement. On attend. Soudain, ses jambes, mues par une force sans pareille, se décident : une jambe avance, et puis l'autre, elle marche ! ses chaussures trop larges laissent à chaque pas s'échapper le bout de ses talons, mais peu importe, elle avance, elle galope ! L'infirmière ouvre la porte du bureau, on sort. La dame ralentit, on approche le fauteuil, elle se rassoit, naturellement.
On l'emmène visiter les locaux. La chambre lui plait. On l'accompagne en salle à manger, là où stagnent des vieux cabossés par la vie et disease. It limps, it rolls in a wheelchair, it sleeps. The old lady, like the devil in front of a clove of garlic, turning his face aside, cover his eyes with his big hands of silk. "There as old here! Oh, I hate old people. What am I doing here?" I'm not old yet! . Her friend smiled, embarrassed. Un ange passe ...
a hundred years. But how old inside, in their thoughts, memories and dreams?
In his eyes, pleasure and pain of life. And the desire to continue singing Vade retro Thanatos I still have the life ahead of me ...
Today, she is there, our centennial, a survivor of life, war and time. His legs are smooth, beautiful, we guess only a few scars. The doctor asks him by gestures, to rise, de faire quelques pas. La vieille dame obtempère. Elle prend appui sur les accoudoirs du fauteuil, puis décolle, toute légère, et se redresse immédiatement. On attend. Soudain, ses jambes, mues par une force sans pareille, se décident : une jambe avance, et puis l'autre, elle marche ! ses chaussures trop larges laissent à chaque pas s'échapper le bout de ses talons, mais peu importe, elle avance, elle galope ! L'infirmière ouvre la porte du bureau, on sort. La dame ralentit, on approche le fauteuil, elle se rassoit, naturellement.
On l'emmène visiter les locaux. La chambre lui plait. On l'accompagne en salle à manger, là où stagnent des vieux cabossés par la vie et disease. It limps, it rolls in a wheelchair, it sleeps. The old lady, like the devil in front of a clove of garlic, turning his face aside, cover his eyes with his big hands of silk. "There as old here! Oh, I hate old people. What am I doing here?" I'm not old yet! . Her friend smiled, embarrassed. Un ange passe ...
a hundred years. But how old inside, in their thoughts, memories and dreams?
In his eyes, pleasure and pain of life. And the desire to continue singing Vade retro Thanatos I still have the life ahead of me ...
