Knock on wood
Melancholic musings upon leaving France
‘We have perhaps underestimated the work that this house and its terrain need’, my mother told me during our drive down to Albi city for lunch. ‘If I had to do it over again, or if I had to make similar decisions now, I would probably make different choices.’
Not that my parents regret living in France now, but in winter the weather does get really cold and wet here where they live. And that little bungalow next to the main house was indeed very practical when their eldest daughter (me) descended with husband plus stepsons plus toddler, but now we hardly ever come down with the five of us all at once, since the older boys have grown much more independent and prefer to come at different times with friends instead of (step)parents. So now my parents have a lot of room for guests, but not always an appetite for them.
‘I don’t know what will happen in ten years’ time’, my mom muses. ‘But then, we try to live in the present.’
So do I. I live in a present where both my parents are still healthy. Where they are getting older, and their closest friends, that bunch of charming characters who seem to have escaped straight from a French movie, are getting older, too, but everyone is, all things considered, still doing fine.
They don’t all remember everything as fluently as they used to. There have been operations and doctor’s visits, check-ups and medication. There is the house in need of repairs, and the swimming pool and the garden awaiting spring to be put in order. Not by them, but by someone who has to come over and who’s always late, or doesn’t show up, or is way too expensive.
I am leaving for Belgium tomorrow, and I am grateful to leave my parents in good health and good spirits. I know I am blessed. For I know full well there will come a time when I will fly — or drive — down here to help with matters of a a far more complicated medical and financial kind. In ten years’ time? Fifteen? Five? I can’t even imagine the task of deciding what should be done with all the furniture, books and childhood memories my parents brought here with them, should something happen to one of them and the other decides to move to an appartment in Albi or even back to Belgium. The thought fills me with premature sadness and dread. I know I won’t be on my own in this. There will be my sister, my husband, friends and kids to help out, think about solutions and make them happen. But still.
I guess this is just the melancholy of leaving. I accept it for what it is, and silently pray that both my parents can enjoy a lot of happy, healthy years here still. In my mind’s eye I see them surrounded by all those they love. The sun is shining, there are friends from all over Europe, there are children playing in the swimming pool and there is good food on the table. Way on high circle the buzzards and falcons we all love.
That’s a good vision, knock on wood.
Or as the French would have it: touchons du bois.
