Serene solitudes

Writing and reflections about my father

This morning I wake up in my little room that gives onto the lake and through the window I watch this blue range. By it’s length, it reminds me of a departure toward the unknown and by its roundness, it reminds me of a voyage that closes us in, isolates us; to write, think and imagine stories, it’s the ideal place to make us travel while isolating us. It’s in this particular atmosphere, I can take my computer, sit in this wicker chair that makes my backside suffer, and begin to think about the faces of these men I was able to meet, the curves of these bodies I was able to glimpse at and also these sentiments I was able to understand. My fingers wriggle and dance on this keyboard, the tic and tac noise delights my father since it’s the sound of writing, but it prevents him from thinking. It’s surely because of that, in this rather cold morning in the streets, he will follow the chorus from the trees and forest, photo and video cameras in hand, to reflect with the sound of birds’ music. I write, and when I finish my first text I get up and wander around in this house empty of bodies but filled with a soul that mixes fear, disgust, beauty and joy; where one must worry about not being happy; where it’s also important to remember to let go. I hear the desperate noise of this door that resists the man who wants to open it. It’s dad that comes in, he’s happy: he reflected, photographed and loves life. He’s a man that lives the present moment while thinking of the life he lived, what he has only half seen when he would have liked to have seen it all, to redo his life by changing the tragic or magic moments of his life. In every way, he’s a man of hope, of happiness; he’s a man that lives. To satisfy this joy when he sees me write, I resume this action and begin to write and dad goes again to leave me alone, to think, dream and travel. I join the words to each other with images, I make them dance, sing and entwine to give them life and also, for those who will read this, will feel as though they are watching me write on the shores of this blue range and possibly imagining themselves with me on this journey, like a commander in the waters of happiness, joy, love and discovery. Dad comes back and tells me that during his stroll with nature, the birds’ singing brought him to the top of a hill where there’s a hotel where we can see the lake beautifully and from where he can dream. More than anything, the place is high enough for a dash of wind to send my texts intertwined in a web to mom; I’m glad and I write. In the middle of this third text, I can still hear the screams from this door that resists being opened, but finally it cracks by the force of dad pronouncing words without touching it and managing to change its mind.