A visit

Marseille. I was fourteen and visiting my father and his girlfriend. We were quietly talking in the microscopic kitchen one evening, when a thunderstorm broke out. In the South of France, thunderstorms tend to be short but violent affairs. Jojo, afraid of thunder, ran screaming to close all the wooden shutters. The rain was battering the building. My father and I looked at each other: “Let’s go watch!”

Ignoring Jojo’s vehement protests, we went outside and sat on the stone step of the small garden. We let the rain soak us through the bones and watched the fury of the elements and the lightening show around the Bonne Mère. We were strangely happy. We felt alive.


When we went back in we were as wet as if we had jumped into a pool. We took turns in the bathroom to strip completely, towel off and put on dry pyjamas. Then we made a pot of hot chocolate. Jojo was half angry, half laughing at our foolishness. My father and I were grinning like Chesshire cats.

Last night, the ghost of my father visited me and sat on my bed. He put a diaphanous hand to my face.
“Brigitte” he said, “you are my daughter. The magic I once conjured runs in your veins. It’s all around you. Seek it. Tame it. I’ll help you.”

He came because of my previous post that said to let go. I was wrong. I shall seek it and tame it.