The last time I saw you, you already hardly
looked yourself anymore, your smile had disappeared and
this time it was surely not coming back.
The skin on your face was no longer as seen in photos
of you in summer, seated on café terraces, all over
France where you had all your life been able to find
café terraces in summer.
I looked for the nurse in the hospital corridors.
You said I can’t come up with anything else now.
Excuse me, I’m a bit out of it.
You often said things like that, I’m a bit 1
out of it.
I’m sleeping badly, I have nightmares.
We looked for things you could think about
the following night, the photo in which you were cycling in 1982
and I was sitting behind you.
You looked at the ceiling right in front of you and you
murmured: We took a few chances that day.
In the Poissy Hospital no nurses were to be found
in the corridors.
You must go home dear. You mustn’t keep
troubling yourself with coming to see me like this.
The nurse arrived as I was leaving the room
and that’s the last time I saw you.
She said: Is he your grandson? He’s tall.
1. "dans le cirage" to be groggy, not quite with it