I’m not so sure how we made it really, we didn’t have much hope, but here we are spending the month of August in South West France, in the village where I grew up, far away from the City by the Bay that we call home now. Lou, Elión, Anton, our children, each born in a different country... Do they feel that they belong here somehow?
Soft winds open my road back; each cycle seems to expand my hands since the day they started to outnumber us. We have all learned to fly over the hills and look out for each other. Here, looking forward is remembering, looking backwards is evolving.
The grass is starting to dry, the figs keep dropping and the heat is welcoming. But each cycle is also overflowing with hurdles; the “counter culture shock” they call it. It makes them ripen fast, I see it in their eyes. It makes them sorrowful and we all lose the thread and we call for excessive grounding. But we just can’t find it. And then we continue marching the winding trip to a better place. In the end we all belong in one same nest, with many different words and rich flavours, we are laying on the same soil.
Grand-ma Clotilde’s rusty wrought iron table and chairs are in the middle of the field; the older kids are picking wild fruits around as Anton stays with me most of the time. His skin is so soft, he is three and sweeter than the warm blueberries Lou and Elión will come back with in their little basket. The unique scent of my baby’s neck blends with freshly picked wild berries and apples, together with the enchanting Buruti, Neroli and Camelia on my own skin. The sun is sinking below the horizon. Soon, we will say good bye, soon we will start over.
Pictures and words by Claire Guarry