Lettre à France

Day 72

She came armed with a folder full of questions, of notes. Things she wanted to ask for, things she needed to know, things she was worried about - all things that went out the window for a brief moment the second the screen lit up, her friend's clearly nervous face lighting up the screen.

She saw the second Brigitte registered she was no longer waiting alone for the call to start, she could clock the way she went from staring vacantly, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, clicking her end of her pen rapidly to smiling brightly, the weight literally falling off her shoulders when Brigitte could see for herself that she was okay.
"Hi, Brigitte," she greeted warmly.
"It is so good to see you," Brigitte replied, trying to hide the way the relief had led to light tears to her eyes. "How are you?" She asked sincerely, clearly wanting to really know. "Promise, I'll keep it just between us."
"I'm okay, really. It is hard, so very hard, but I am keeping one foot in front of the other, keeping my head down. Helping others is giving me something positive to focus on, that's helping," she reassured.
"I keep thinking about you all, I can't even imagine," Brigitte sighed heavily, trying to convey her empathy over the video screen.
"I wouldn't want you to," she smiled softly, fatigued back. "But enough about me. Congratulations, again."
"Thank you. We were touched that you took the time to reach out to us on that, given everything. And, to that end, please take your time. As soon as we are done, I have to go back to planning this thing for tomorrow," rolling her eyes clearly both jokingly, but importantly, also exhaustedly.
"You don't seem like the kind of woman to shy away from planning a party," she laughed at her antics, enjoying the brief moment of needed levity.
"I just hope for your sake, you have a guideline to follow when your husband gets reelected. Planning an inauguration when there is no modern model is not fun. At least this is the last time we are doing this. You on the other hand - "
"I think you are jumping the gun on that," Olena demurred.
"Sweetie, if he's running, he's getting reelected. Your husband is Winston bloody Churchill."
"So he's not going to run again?"
"Constitutionally here, you can only serve two consecutive terms. And I'll be 79 in 2032, so, if he's running again, it's likely to be over my dead body. Literally."
"Don't say that," Olena said strenuously, seriously.
Brigitte sighed, and Olena could tell she was clearly weighing something as she paused before she spoke again. After a brief pause, she started, quietly, clearly sharing a private part of herself.
"When I was a little girl, about 8, I lost my older sister, her husband, and my unborn niece or nephew in a horrific car crash. Shortly thereafter, I lost another family member, who was just a little older than me to sudden appendicitis. Not like I'm anyone right now to lecture you on death, but I've always had a weird relationship with it because when you're young your supposed to think that your invincible and instead, it's always been hovering right there over my shoulder. It has led me to live my life in the present, day by day, moment by moment. But it also means I am far more pessimistic about my mortality than my husband, who is convinced I am invincible. I'm afraid this job will have taken our last 10 good years together; I refuse to die in this job. But you didn't call to talk about me, and these depressing things," she hurriedly tried to change the subject.
Olena was a little stunned by that confession. Not just the content of it, the deeply personal losses and fears Brigitte offered up to her, but the way she did it so freely, openly. Once again she was struck by the warmth, the acceptance of this woman.
"That's what I'm afraid of happening to our children. I've seen the way this war has changed childhood, seen the way its impacted our children at home, those who have left."
"War marks everyone. My older brothers and sisters were all born before or during the Second World War - I'm very much the baby of my family. And I've heard their stories about that time, have heard stories about how it impacted their childhoods. "But, I've seen these kids here, Olena, in our schools, in our hospitals. They are the most extraordinary people I have ever met. They're so smart, and they have adapted so quickly. And to a kiddo they tell me about where they're from: their village, their friends, their teachers, the movie theatre across the street from their home, their favourite ice cream parlor.
"The kids are alright, Olena. You've done good," Brigitte assured her friend.
"I couldn't have done it without friends like these."
"Yes, you could have. But, I'm glad I can help."
The call lasted for another 20 minutes, working out the next steps on treatments, on schooling, the upcoming second annual forum of Olena's First Ladies and Gentlemen organization, when with regret, they had to hang up, exchanging warm promises to speak like this again soon.
The following day, while watching a highlight reel of the ceremony unfold, Olena picked up her phone, and sent:
See, I told you that you could do it! Well done, you two. Hope you are able to enjoy your family tonight and really celebrate.
PS: You looked beautiful.