How long has it been since Mam died? Was it yesterday or the day before? I’m not sure any more. During the days and nights that we have stayed by her side, taking turns, me during the day, Laure at night, so that she would constantly have a hand to hold in her thin fingers. Every day I told her the same story, the story of Boucan, where everything is always young and beautiful, where the sky-coloured roof shines. It’s a make-believe land, it only exists for us three. And I think that, from having talked about it so much, a bit of that immortality is within us, unites us against death, which is so near.
As for Laure, she doesn’t talk. On the contrary, she’s silent, obstinate, but that’s her way of struggling against oblivion. I brought back a small branch of the chalta tree for her and when I gave it to her I saw she hadn’t forgotten. Her eyes shone with pleasure when she took the branch, which she laid on the nightstand or rather tossed there, as if inadvertently, because that’s the way she acts with objects she loves.
[The Prospector, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
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