How to grieve and love in French

316490_2694111955060_734363756_n-2Another public service announcement. Read Nina Bouraoui.

“I let time heal me, refusing to reread her letters, to look at her pictures, to wear clothes that I wore in her presence. I never go down the Vieille-du-Temple street towards the Seine, fearing to see her or to walk in the parks that we have left behind.”

“I can’t endure either men or women who approach me. All tentatives of seduction are an affront to my chagrin. I keep with me a form of faithfulness of which I am the only one to understand its meaning.”

“The expression, ‘a knife to the back,’ came to my mind, followed by a sadness that I didn’t used to know.”

“To mature would be to let that part of me die, like a small, small animal off in the woods. Or to shake off my scales or let them dry and peel away, blowing off with the wind. Or step out from the shower and dry off my body, with one strong knowing look into the mirror and grieve the sadness and the reality. But I don’t know what comes next.”

“There are so many metaphors to be sucked from the leaves that scatter at our feet, to be handled like a wine glass full of water. Metaphors to touch and trace their condensation, to sip slowly or heroicly gulp them down, and so many metaphors to walk as on a disheveled lovely road and again capture, like a child, the twinkling of the lights gleaming in the trees and in the eyes of friends. And I’m thankful. Not for magic in the trees, not just for metaphors and things to feel, not only for memories or love to remember. I’m purely and simply thankful and that’s all you wanted me to be.”

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