Here is a text that told me Jean-Luc.
"An interpretation of a rare and valuable relationship which, in spite of you, you have participated "
me he wrote. I publish it again today. A thought for a reader that I have not encountered. If this blog and the previous served only one thing, it would connect to human beings.
She was beautiful, old, any broken, bent double with age and its excesses.
She was beautiful, with his cane and Kelly, sitting in the sun. She was bumped, but when I passed her, she looked up and smiled.
She touched me, old woman, her smile lit up the living and making me his photo.
It touched me in responding to my greetings with a "you're young and beautiful again," a "you're a nice, you're a sweet 'and shunned his gaze, tirelessly toward its past, his interiority.
I met her one day at the entrance of the building where I worked.
She was in another department, and our furtive meetings before the door of the building, filled me with his youth.
She looked me in the top of his eighty years.
She was no longer very young and yet, in his eyes turned towards me, I guessed at twenty or forty years, a woman so beautiful that my eyes it moving.
One day
sitting in the sun, all broken with his stick and Kelly, she looked at me and said, "you and me, we will know! "
She was hatchet, the old, but that day, she knew. She was there.
Shortly after, I took care of his transfer. When she saw me arrive, she would not leave said: "well, we're going now! I have nothing to do here. "
then I did not know if she thought I was going to get her out of this place or if seeing me, she was willing to change service.
I took her hand. I wore a huge suitcase. Eighty years, it does not travel light. "My name is Jean-Luc", "I said. "I know," she says, "long ago I look at you. I still have very good ears, you know. "
I settled in her new room, bathed in sunlight.
She was bumped, the old, but she was beautiful sitting in the sun.
I waited and then took off. She was beautiful, sitting all broken with his stick and Kelly, looking at the sky and sunny.
I was in his photo, she had entered the mine, the old woman.
A Draft relationship, recognition of one by another and one by one.
she was beautiful, old, any broken with his stick and Kelly.
That evening, for the first time I brought a patient in my head.
beautiful she was, lying down, relieved with his cane and Kelly.
For months, she remained in hospital, still broken, still bumped, but still beautiful, old girl.
The sky had fallen, ironed blue gray, but she was beautiful, old, with the summer in his eyes and his soft hands on my face.
She told me her driver's license in nineteen hundred and forty-seven, Copenhagen and its winter snow, China, America, the USSR, India and Asia.
beautiful she was, my old, less hatchet and increasingly near.
beautiful she was, the day of his eighty-two. Thai restaurant and two days to get ready. Hairdresser, manicurist, beautician.
That evening, my hand in hers, she was beautiful, all broken with his stick and Kelly.
She cried, my old, when I deposited a kiss on the palm of his hand.
And then one day I discovered a blog. The blog of a guy a bit crazy, funny and touching.
He offered us a piece of pie with strawberries Southwest. Because he was leaving on vacation, we left open the refrigerator.
She was beautiful, old, sitting in his living room, sitting in the sun with his cane and Kelly.
She laughed while reading articles and comments. Listening to Nina Simone and Shirley Horn, she became pensive. She was beautiful then, old girl.
She asked me to come and visit regularly with the laptop to receive news about Lawrence.
He too had been elected, recognized, and had entered her world.
His world of memories and curiosity of a new world she did not recognize but which she loved to walk.
She was beautiful, old, with his cane and Kelly, all broken but less ax.
She told me about this blog as if it were a whole person. She said: "Oh_le_beau_jour" was a nice name for a window so funny.
We spent much time in restaurants, concerts, operas, theaters. In bars from time to time.
She called me six to eight times a day.
Then one night she called me because she had a stomach ache. Hospital, intervention, and disaster.
I went twice a day, bringing him flowers, white tulips and daffodils - even that we had in common.
One night she took my hand. A tear glistened in his right eye. She said: "I can not love you I love you love so very strong friendship."
She also asked me to say goodbye to my parents and girls kissing very hard with my sister and my sister and my brother-in "it is so nice, Michael."
The next day, the ICU, intubated, she could not speak, this room that I was fortunate to have in my life.
She died almost peacefully March 12, 2009, leaving me alone, alone with this terrible loneliness of losing a loved one. "A mother from Switzerland," she said at the mine.
She was dead, old, any broken with his stick and Kelly
She lay there in bed, absent. Forever.
It was there my old. Her name was Janine. She was 84 and a half
Bathed in sunlight, motionless and absent forever
With, on his last bed, his cane and Kelly.
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