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The lady and her broom

Modifié le : 2019/08/05

The lady with the broom is still there. Her fenced court­yard is free of veg­e­ta­tion, asphalt­ed. Sum­mer, spring, fall, and even in win­ter, I see her han­dling her mod­est kitchen broom, not even one of those big, rough-brushed hard­ware brush­es, but the one designed to move house dust.

Not a cen­time­ter escapes her vig­i­lance. Her work takes her beyond her prop­er­ty, in the street and a lit­tle beyond her place. She hunts and dusts. The area is clean.

I have already seen her trim the neigh­bor’s hedge, not the neigh­bor’s next door, but the one across the street. A branch must not cor­re­spond to its ordered vision of things.

Yes­ter­day, once her work was fin­ished, she began to inspect her bal­cony, then remained motion­less for some time, lost in thought, or mere­ly idle.

We could eas­i­ly laugh at her mania, espe­cial­ly in win­ter when she sweeps the snow as if it were dead leaves. But in the end, what do I know about her ? What if she was a Bud­dhist in her soul who, in her infi­nite patience, tire­less­ly repeat­ed the emp­ty ges­ture of start­ing over ? And if it’s only good for her, unhook her arms tak­en away by vicious arthri­tis ? What if she just wants to have a clean yard ?

I don’t know her hus­band, or if she has one, he must be taped in front of the TV. So, for the excite­ment, we’ll come later.

At last, my mind is wan­der­ing. It repeats itself dif­fer­ent­ly by try­ing to sweep the same rags off its head.

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