Rose (En)

I. "I met her at last"

She, had taken up my thoughts the whole trip. On my right, behind the glass, the winter scenery was passing at full speed. Impatient, I was remembering this summer, when she had come at home in the countryside for holidays. I remember her delighted face, when she had left the carriage with her pretty polished loafers. Then also, her disappointed look while walking in the muddy path which leads to the house. I had promised her to wash her dirty shoes as soon as we would have been home. And the night, she had fallen asleep exhausted, while I was massaging her feet.
I had taken care of her so well all the day ; I had toted her huge suitcase for a half kilometer, because my brother escorting us, had prefered to carry the too tired princess. She had grabbed him as a hero, and I was incredibly jealous, I do recall, that I had grumbled more than once during this afternoon.

I was preciously holding this picture between my fingers, damaged by the time and the journey. A keepsake from this great summer, when we had got on so well with each other. Her face was allways smiling, but here looked serious. On this portrait, she seemed so strong, and yet so fragile and sweet. This image especially interested me, because it spread something deep. It inspired me tenderness, a simply pleasant feeling.

She was 21 and I, 19. Four years had gone by since this event, and we had sent several letters to each other. The last one I got, invited me to join her in town, for december. Four years, the time I had needed to understand my feelings, particularly to accept them. A lot of things changed, then, I wondered who would be the woman I was about to meet.

Later, the train stopped and the carriages was getting empty. I went out in the crowd. A spark penetrated my chest ; I saw her, Rose, a little bit further on the platform, she was here. She was already greeting me with a big smile, a smile I knew well and I would never forget. An imperfect one of course, but which glowed with joy and sincerity, a unique smile, because Rose, she was unique. And this smile, was for me.

« Linda ! Here you are ! » she said delighted before hugging me.

It was my name that she had just said, it'd been a long time that I hadn't heard it from her voice. And here I was, on this 19th of december 1934, the chin settled on her shoulder, I met her at last. She curiously smelled like vanilla.

Then when we separated, she soflty slipped the tip of her fingers through my hair, smiling. I had cut them since the last time.

« Pretty. » she finally said.