Yes, it is the date. That which is inscribed in the table in my country school in the Lot-et-Garonne. At St. Livrade exactly. I would not recognize the place: the school is no longer in the same place, it is mixed. I lived across the street. I only had the village street to cross. I heard my teacher scolded her schoolteacher husband, who was working at the other end of the village, the boys' school. He was going away, her beautiful wavy hair in the wind on his bike "woman" coaster. This would give me the signal for a day of fascination: I loved my school. Its smells, its floor washed bleach, its porcelain inkwells filled with "student services" at wholesale gurgling of a beautiful purple ink poured a bottle spout-like nose of a child who sniffs the bouquet flowers made of 'campaign' by a student from walking in all weather family farm. The magic hour of the choir under the bow of our imperious director musician, violinist and enthusiastic setter inspired music.
Seven years ago I returned from Paris where I had left my son on his hospital bed: miserable, painful, but still clinging to hope, faith in its treatment. We waited heavy heart his arrival on February 3, for what we knew to be its end of life.
Old age is special by it, by long years lived, when one takes the time to sit down, a smooth blend of memories, whose wealth is that the heart has seen fit to withhold. To keep those who are there to love us, we smile, we give, we educate. The heart leaves out so as not to disturb the serenity of the evening of life, those we have hurt.
I enter this period of remembrance that takes me back, whatever I do, the suffering of my child. But in recent weeks of his life we have him our child / man, known, recognized, re-learned, watched, listened, loved enough to die. Time of love to give emergency, making weight all these years that we should live together anymore.
Old age is not sorrow, not forgetfulness, resignation is not cautious, not pastel painting session, quitting is not grumpy, not resentful. Old age is a sense of urgency to live, sharp looks, affections worried but discrete, memories to accept without regret, to see its future boundaries without fear.
I'm old, patient, serene, without rancor, ready ...
Seven years ago I returned from Paris where I had left my son on his hospital bed: miserable, painful, but still clinging to hope, faith in its treatment. We waited heavy heart his arrival on February 3, for what we knew to be its end of life.
Old age is special by it, by long years lived, when one takes the time to sit down, a smooth blend of memories, whose wealth is that the heart has seen fit to withhold. To keep those who are there to love us, we smile, we give, we educate. The heart leaves out so as not to disturb the serenity of the evening of life, those we have hurt.
I enter this period of remembrance that takes me back, whatever I do, the suffering of my child. But in recent weeks of his life we have him our child / man, known, recognized, re-learned, watched, listened, loved enough to die. Time of love to give emergency, making weight all these years that we should live together anymore.
Old age is not sorrow, not forgetfulness, resignation is not cautious, not pastel painting session, quitting is not grumpy, not resentful. Old age is a sense of urgency to live, sharp looks, affections worried but discrete, memories to accept without regret, to see its future boundaries without fear.
I'm old, patient, serene, without rancor, ready ...
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