Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 6

The next time I see you, I’m ten years old.

I am perched at the third-floor window, my breath melting the lacy frost on the pane.

Rue Champagneur is white.

On the other side, a woman falters, her long coat no longer enough to protect her.

Some things children can guess, and even though I don’t know you, I sense you in this waltz of hesitation.

You cross the street in long strides, your toes barely landing. A water spider.

You dart, you head toward us, leaving no trace of yourself on the ground.

You slide a small book into the mailbox before slipping off, yet again. But right before you disappear, you look at me. I promise myself I will catch up with you one day.