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Somehow I found my way to Sherbrooke, which I knew would lead me to the city center. So on I walked. Past rough buildings and open spaces and areas for parking and commercial buildings, then apartment blocks and restaurants. Joined only by the little traffic of those returning home late from their day.
I had the sense that when I walked out the door, it was after nine...maybe almost ten in the evening. Most businesses were closed and a peek into restaurants offered no glimpse of a clock, so could not verify.
On and on I walked. In the cold night air with only my damp jacket to warm me. But it was enough against the wind. I appreciated how the chill kept my aches to a minimum, and stopped blood from trailing down my face. Sometimes I even put my arm up with the still wet part of the sleeve against my eye, which felt very good.
Two times cars pulled up to my side, pacing me as I walked, and in them were older men asking me if I wanted a ride. Both times I only gave them a shake of my head and kept going. I could not deal with anyone who wanted anything from me, right then.
As I continued, my thoughts remained scattered...anger at Rory, fear I might be arrested and returned to that decent Christian man’s home, worries about what I could do to live, thinking I should find the Gay Youth Group to ask for their help them shaking off the thought for fear they might also turn on me, sadness that I was now, without question, an orphan. That if I was dead to my parents, they also were dead to me...and I could not accept that thought.
On and on my mind pinged, left and right and around and all over, until my thoughts settled on a book my older gentleman had brought me. The memory of it kindly reached out to lead every thought down to one.
It was an anthology of poetry. In French. The binding green and ornate with gold trim.
“I found it in a shop close to here,” he had said. “Just a couple blocks away, on rue D’Antoine.” Then as he handed it to me, he had asked, “Will you read to me this poem?”
It was Demain, dès l’aube by Victor Hugo:
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
I will leave. You see, I know you are waiting for me.
I will go through the forest, I will go over the mountain.
I cannot stay away from you any longer.
I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Seeing nothing outside, hearing no sound,
Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands clasped,
Sad, and the day for me will be like the night.
I will not look at the gold of the falling evening,
Nor the sails in the distance descending towards Harfleur,
And when I arrive, I will place on your grave
A bouquet of green holly and flowering heather.
When I was done, I could not think of what to say, to him. No thanks came from me, except with my eyes holding tears. His smile revealed how deeply I had touched him, and all he did was give me a gentle kiss on my forehead and caress his shivering fingers through my hair...and leave.
Even then, I somehow knew I would never see him, again.
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