Géraldine rocked in her oak chair looking at the window. Clouds were hiding mountain peaks of Mont Tremblant. She sighed glancing at the photograph on her lap. Papa was in the other room snoring loudly. She found comfort in this sound. It meant she had peace and quiet for a few hours before he would awaken in his unpredictable rages. It spiralled if he’d taken a few swigs of his homemade Caribou. He seemed to take to it more and more these days. He’d heat it over the woodstove.
La maudite poele à bois! He still had not purchased an electric stove. What fool still cooks on such appliances? Bien moi, c’est qui! Her sisters ran off as soon as they could to la grande ville de St-Jérome for Estelle and Marie-Claude met a ski instructor and moved to Montréal. They left her alone to care for Papa. They’d each promised on Maman’s deathbed to take care Papa but only Géraldine kept her promise. “C’est ben trop tard pour moi, à c’heure.” She gave up hoping or caring. She volunteered at Auberge Alys Robi, an old folk’s home and knew that was probably her calling. The staff invited her often to come work for them.
She sighed heavily, at least she had a place to go when Papa was no longer here.
Her rocking chair creaked as she searched for those mountain peaks still hidden in their fog.
Who am I?
looking at this image,
I get lost.
© Tournesol ’15