The House were I was Born

I remember, it was a morning, in summer,

The window was half-open, I drew near,

I could see my father at the end of the garden.

He was motionless, looking for something,

I could not tell what, or where, beyond the world,

His body was already bent over, but his gaze

Was lifted toward the unaccomplished or the impossible.

He had put aside his pick and his spade,

The air was fresh on that morning of the world,

But even freshness can be impenetrable, and cruel

The memory of the mornings of childhood.

Who was he, who had he been in the light,

I did not know, I still do not.

But I also see him on the boulevard,

Walking slowly, so much weariness

Weighing down the way he now moved,

He was going back to work, while I

was wandering about with some of my classmates

At the beginning of an afternoon still free from time.

To this figure, seen from afar, moving on its way,

I dedicate the words that cannot say what they would.

(In the dining room

Of the Sunday afternoon, in summer,

The shutters closed against the heat,

The table cleared, he suggested

Cards, since these are the only pictures

In the childhood house to satisfy

The needs of dream, but he leaves,

And when he does, the child clumsily takes the cards,

He puts the winning ones in the other’s hand,

Then waits feverishly for the game to begin again,

And for the one who was losing to win, and so triumphantly

That he might see in this victory a sign, something

to nourish some hope the child cannot know.

After this, two paths part, and one of them

Vanishes, and almost immediately, forgetfulness

Sets in, avid, relentless.

I have crossed out

These words a hundred times, in verse, in prose,

But I cannot

Stop them from coming back.)

The house where I was born (07) by Yves Bonnefoy

Note:
The inspiration for this drawing came from Domenico Ghirlandaio's Old Man and Child in the collection of the Louvre, and an affectionate snapshot of Bill Durks with his young stepdaughter, Dorothy. In the original painting, an old man with a nose distorted by rhinophymic growths looks down at the tow-headed child in his lap. One might think of the painting as a meditation on youth and old age but I think it is an expression of love that transcends physical appearance and knows no reservation. For me it demonstrates the intrinsic purity of a child's love. I have seen this for myself and have been touched forever because of it.
I was at the home of a woman who was a burn victom. She had healed but had been burned on 90% of her body. Her scares were horrable. Her once beautiful face now layers of scar tissue; but as we talked over coffee in the kitchen I forgot about the scars and listened to her recounting aspects of her life with much respect for her courage and bravery. As we talked her little daughter ..about 4 years old came bounding into the room. She asked mommy if she could go into the yard and play. Mommy said she could go and spontaniously the little girl put her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her on her mother's scared face.

There was no reservation from this mother and the little girl saw only the beauty of her loving mommy. Togeather they were, in that moment, in perfect harmony.  As for me I never forgot that demonstration of love, as in little Yves switching cards or as demonstrated in the drawing above, that spoke to me that day. It seems we never know when our lives will be touched in some profound way and sometimes we do not realize the full extent until our experiences are left to marinate for awhile. 
cbruce