Vendaval

Carefreeness, how do you translate this into French? C-a-r-e-f-r-e-e-ness, I tell her, gesturing as if I had castanets in my hands. When you can smile at the little things, when you realize the stupidity of problems at work, absolutely solvable, when you look outside and, even if it has been raining all weekend, a ray of sunshine has just come out that has coloured the facades of the buildings pale yellow. Lègéreté, here we are.

The smell of fireplaces, I have not smelled this for a year. It is not sad that summer is over; a season of hot chocolate and chestnuts opens, of films on the sofa and 'social distanced' dinners among a few.

Groups of three-year-old dwarves accompanied by very patient teachers covered in masks and fluorescent jackets, roam the streets of the center. School visits to museums have started again after a pandemic winter that lasted even one summer. And which unfortunately is not finished yet, but which nature overlaps. 

And the universe has decided that it is time to bring autumn back. The leaves at the park fall, brown on the slippery slush, after days of light drizzle. Moisture gets into the bones, but goosebumps are easily cured with hot tea.

Vendaval, and do you know this other word? This will pass this too.

Carefree lightness, despite everything.

Si yo no me conociera

Juraría que estoy algo mal

De una laguna mental

(Mon Laferte, Vendaval)