Monday, June 26, 2017

Dear Eve,

It has been a while since our first meeting in winter. I kept thinking about that day, about the promise I made to write to you. Sometimes, the story unfolded naturally in its entire splendor, but not on paper. Until today.
January 28th was a sunny day that did not resemble its fellow sisters at all. It was a like fugitive spring day, running with its wild bluish green hair to meet you. I was kilometers behind her, in a yellow cab, having a strange small talk with the driver. About kids and parents, about kids’ bad ideas and parents’ obstinate what-I-am-telling-you-is-good, and childish acts of rebellion, and all sort of little things that you’ll experience one day. You know that kind of little stories, which you keep on telling to whoever wants to listen, landmarks of your personal history, bearing the sweet, seldom a bit sour taste, like some old melancholic love songs that sometimes you can hear on the radio.
I entered the church, wearing the joy instead of any gala attire or jewelries. And you were there, cute and sleepy, in a white flounced dress, unaware of the festive uneasiness of the moment. The soft voices of people in the choir were praising lord for his creation, and they sounded all of a sudden like a strange and soothing lullaby. Your mom was wearing a lacy black dress that made her look so young and hippy. Stressed and happy, and anxious and oozing a soft pale glow. So, this is how motherhood looks like, isn’t it ... Your father, a bit anxious, happy to nest you in his arms. All protective, all proud. He was holding gently the little monkey’s head (his words, not mine) on his chest near his heart. That is a subtle love confession, Eve. Subtle and deep.
Your clueless godparents, even more clueless than I thought. Saying the words of Creed all of a tremble, all full of emotions. And the baptism itself that took you totally by surprise and made you cry a bit in confusion. That’s the new version of you, having a name and a god to look over you.
The party was intimate and sweet, with your parents’ friends around in old but fancy house. Garnished with good music and good wine, with colorful macarons piled up on a white shelf in the hallway. With two dogs hidden under a chair waiting for someone to break their shyness and pet them. Having a chic and ancient stove covered in tiles and pots of flowers here and there. Yellow and green cushions and lemonade, so homey, so warm. With lovely small talks and plans over a delicious cheesecake, with coffee and dreams. Watching you, a small little girl with your fuzzy blond hair looking like a dandelion florets, sleeping peacefully in your cottony-like cradle. Making all of us swooning over you, oh my god, she is so sweet.

Dear Eve, what you’ve just read is a primitive form of memory sharing: a bunch textures and tastes and colors, some puzzle pieces bearing all sort of sensations, covered in words whose sense you will feel later on.