you and me – POSTCARD #26
This card was sent by my gorgeous friend, Marion Rouxel, whom I lovingly and creatively call Frenchy.
It’s cold where we live.
I think that has the most to do with it. Our tradition. My first memory is sitting at my Mémère’s knee close to the fire while she told secret stories. Later my younger sisters would lean in while my aunt tossed another log on the hot embers. Her arms were strong from chopping wood. There were no men. I asked about it once and Mémère told me a story about a Parisian Creperie run by women. How famous the delicious crepes were across all of Europe. Only the eldest sister of the eldest sister was passed the recipe.
My little sister didn’t like this part of the story, she didn’t like learning to chop wood and sew with my aunts. So I passed the stories on to her at night in our beds. When the dark was everywhere and even the moon was black I told her the secret ones. One night I told her about our tradition. The whites of her eyes glowed and her voice tremble as she said she was tired.
When she was gone in the morning my aunts sewed as usual and my mother talked with my Mémère then left. She came back two days later with my sister covered in mud. Her voice was different. She knelt by the fire and said how she was in the woods looking for her brothers and La Mère de la Nuit came for her. She tried to hide but it knew her name. It killed her. My Mémère laughed and petted her hair. No more night-time stories for you, Ma petite. But she was looking at me. Then my sister stood, still with twigs in her hair, and went outside to help my aunts chop wood.