The day before.

December 25, 2014,
like a premonition
that morning I decide to leave through the mist.
I walk through this translucent landscape,
but I feel like I'm moving backwards.
I am in between, between a landscape that
reveals itself and disappears.
It's neither day nor night, a landscape with no time,
no soul, no life,between life and death.
A suspended landscape.
Like the day after a storm.
Silence strangles me.
The landscape is becoming an image,
or the other way around.
It's no longer a question of time or space,
just a body lost, a body that can't see anymore,
and passes through the silence.
Blind and doomed, I am in between night and day,
space that's full and void.

December 26, 2014,
Suzanne has a routine blood test after
a persistent low fever.
At 3pm, we learn she has leukaemia.
The space crumbles, I become blind and deaf.
My body becomes a storm, a storm that suffocates me,
crushes my stomach.
It's neither day nor night,
I cry and every tear is a scream.
A scream from the void.
A terrible noise that becomes silence.
My eyes are black and hollow.

December 30, 2014,
Suzanne celebrates her birthday in hospital,
she is seven years old. Her smile is broad but silent
and her little body is gnawed away by the illness.
Her first birthday without candles because fire is forbidden
in this half-sterile room.

January 19, 2015,
her body is empty.
A rebirth.
All that remains is her strength
and her childhood innocence.
Suzanne continues her fight, braves the storm
like a Queen of the night
and tells me that day:
"Daddy, since I've been in hospital,
I'm not afraid of the dark anymore."

Julien Magre,
Paris, January 22,