Mme Cora's letter
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April 6, 2025
This mortal shell that seems so precious
The body in which I inhabit is starting to frighten me. Has it reached the maximum number of times it can regenerate its cells? Are they functioning at a slower pace now that they’re almost 78? Like my memory, and my legs, which, once quick and athletic, vaulted me high over poles. They even propelled me to the top of the podium at an intercollegiate pole vault competition in Montreal. I can still see them – long, thin and agile, jumping into the air.
When I see pretty faces aging behind my television screen, I freeze. My gaze fixed on the plasma, I touch my deflated cheeks, my wrinkling lips and my eyes, receding into my skull.
In my opinion, one of the most elegant words reserved for elderly people is “mature.” Think about it for a moment. A state of peak existence, not decrepitude.
I have a habit of eating apples constantly. I buy so many that sometimes they start to shrivel before I’ve had the chance to bite into one. Almost imperceptibly, the flesh of the forbidden fruit dries, sags and atrophies, its skin becoming flaccid. Even if its flesh remains enjoyable for human consumption, the envelope has deteriorated.
My face is a good approximation of a wizened apple adorned with beautiful, coloured glasses perched on the nose! Thanks to the town’s optician, I can still see the words I write and watch them fly away in the wind.
According to what I’ve read on the subject, as the three cutaneous layers lose volume and efficacy a number of effects can be observed: reduced elasticity and essential lipids, lower cutaneous nerve endings and loss of sensitivity. Heaven help me! But the worst part is, which no one expects, the reduction in the number of sweat glands and the atrophy of blood vessels that diminishes the skin’s ability to protect itself from the heat. So, in addition to being less tolerant of the sun’s rays, we wilt more quickly in the heat, even though we no longer sweat like we did in our prime! I’ll never lounge in the sun again!
I vividly remember the years as a cook when the heat was unrelenting, thanks to the hot flashes of menopause. In my first small kitchen, I’d break the eggs, flip the crêpes and put up with it. I’d do my best to stifle my sensations and, when an intense hot flash would soak my neck, I’d call my daughter for backup so she could take my place at the griddle for 30 minutes or so. I’d say the code “the tortellini is boiling,” and she knew straight away what to do.
Dear reader, I’m sharing this secret code in case it might come in handy!
Thank heavens, I can’t see my sagging bottom. My flabby behind is the culprit causing my legs to move slower these days. During the pandemic, I walked a fair share, but since I’ve settled into my morning coffee routine with my friends, my bottom is always parked on a chair. While I type away at the keyboard and pile up drafts, my lower body is losing its agility. My poor old legs even wake me up at night. I must get out of bed and walk for a good 15 minutes around the house until the pain subsides.
You know this about me already: I’m crazy about colours. I loved decorating my breakfast dishes with colourful fruit. I enjoy dressing up in bright colours. Why do you think I dress this body that’s about to lose the battle against age in an array of hues? When you turn on your screen to read my letters, don’t you notice the energizing colours and the beautiful brooches I wear like badges of strength and courage? Before we pack our bags to leave, let’s thank our old wobbly shells for taking us this far and congratulate ourselves for living.
For many, the slow decay of aging is worse for worrying about it; as if a pink-horned devil blamed all the world’s pain on age. Moustaches spring from discarded carrots, and sprouts strut their stuff on the noggin of overripe potatoes. In my book, age doesn’t have an age, but aging, although it displeases me, is inevitable. Que sera, sera!
This morning, I wanted to poke fun at this mortal shell that seems so precious. We have to treat it with care to help it last as long as possible, but for the rest, it’s just an ornate Buddha decorating our lives and our little palaces.
Our true nature is invisible to the naked eye. Like a miraculous sap that feeds us, shapes us and sets us apart. This true nature shines like a light inside us; it’s our duty to keep this flame alive.
I’m aging, dwindling, weakening; I’m dying terribly slowly, in small steps. Toes and fingers climbing on top of one another trying to escape their fate.
My memory is a sieve that has allowed the provocateurs that once tripped my temper to escape. My old heart, almost as empty as a church, still hopes to fulfill a few desires yet.
Old, tired and clumsy servants, my hands still prefer to WRITE. They insist on telling my story.
More than all the gold, myrrh and incense, these precious hands have no desire to return to dust.
Cora
♥️
March 30, 2025
A matchmaker named Natasha – Chapter 7 (conclusion)
Might I find a gallant man here on earth, amiable and kind, like Grandpa Frédéric? Dear Grandpa, how I loved him! I helped him harvest the hay, dig up potatoes and pick corn and hazelnuts at summer’s end. When my mom’s eczema flared up, Grandpa would often take us to school. He was there for us too when our parents fought. Could I have fallen for a man who had all my grandfather’s virtues? In the blink of an eye!
Today, the men who might stand by me are as old as I. They don’t pretend to be 30 or even 50. I secretly watch them every morning at the coffee shop, examining and comparing their attributes. I try to convince myself that the friendship we’ve built through all our mornings together is much stronger than love’s embrace. My faithful friends will very likely notice my lapses in judgment; hopefully they’ll show me leniency. Even a woman as bold as I occasionally jumps the rails and strays from common sense. Drunk love is tempting at any age, dear readers!
When Natasha, my professional matchmaker, informs me there’s one last chocolate left on the plate, I’m tempted to cancel the entire thing. This lovers’ posturing annoys, irritates, horrifies and exasperates me.
Dring, dring!
– “Hello, Mr. Renato. How are you? Natasha insists that you and I have a little talk before we meet in person.”
– “Va bene,” I hear the man with the Italian accent murmur.
– “Do you still work? Forgive my rudeness, but how old are you?”
– “Bambini celebrate 75, on Sunday,” he replies in his charming broken French.
– “May I ask where you live?”
– “Condo, but want to find good woman for villa in Italy and house in Florida.”
He goes on, but the man of a few words fails to pique my curiosity. I’m not even tempted to meet him. But Natasha the matchmaker insists on doing her job until the end, so she plans a lunch meeting for us in a popular pizzeria at Marché Central, not too far from the suitor’s condo. And I say YES! Certainly not because I want to see his face or condo, but because I love the restaurant Natasha picked: Pizzeria Giulietta.
And so, as agreed, three days later, I’m at the pizzeria at noon sharp. I take off my jacket and order a tall latte to warm up. When my date arrives, I realize he’s as short as his French vocabulary and, for my taste, short too on physical charms. I want to leave, but I remain calm.
The man removes his overcoat, which is tailor-made I’m sure, and an attentive waiter helps him get settled at the table. He orders an amaretto sour, served with a small bowl of mixed nuts on the house. Could he be a regular at this place? My smiling knight in shining armour tells me the name of the singer we can hear over the speakers as he taps his foot and eats his nuts.
– “Not very hungry,” he claims, “but really like songs from my country.”
I, on the other hand, suppress the desire to bolt with every bite I take of Giulietta’s excellent pizza. But of course I stay out of politeness. I ask for another hot latte. Some 30 minutes later, I make up an excuse and leave.
Outside, the day is fading. Up there, in a purple-blue sky, two small clouds face each other. Could they be in love with one another? What will I do with all the handfuls of “I love you” I’ve been piling up all these years? Turn them into more fudge, jams and Sunday letters? As for my loving heart, broken into a thousand crumbs, I’ll probably have to throw it to the wind for the angels to catch.
Cora
💖
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March 23, 2025
A matchmaker named Natasha – Chapter 6
Dear readers, I’m improving my writing skills as you continue to read my letters. The whiteness of the blank page is like a sky filled with miracles for me. When I was young, all I wanted was to darken pages with my ink and, today, my golden years afford me the time I need. A smile, a quick peck on the cheek, a sympathetic eye; these days, I write to discover what true love is.
Do I have enough time to find a soulmate? How many men and women experience great love? Maybe once, twice or even three times in their lifetime if they’re very, very lucky?
Though the first two candidates missed the mark, Natasha, the expert matchmaker I tasked with the mission of finding me the right man, informs me she’s still looking. Does she know how fast time flies? My last few good years are slipping and crumbling away.
HELP! WILL I REMAIN AN OLD SPINSTER UNTIL I’M 100?
– “Claudia, my dear, she tells me, don’t forget to use your alias!” A third candidate is eager to meet me.
After a 30-minute introductory call, I imagine myself on cloud 9. I don’t suffer from any pain, but my date manages an orthopedic company on Montreal’s South Shore that sells all sorts of products to drugstores across Canada – compression socks, lumbar belts, bandages, ankle braces, removable insoles, elastic bandages and corsets of all kinds. Should I break a leg to meet him faster?
– “Dear Natasha, when can I meet him?”
– “Patience! Your suitor is on a business trip to Chicago right now.”
I understand. This man probably leads the same busy lifestyle I used to when I was opening restaurants across Canada. Even if I’d met my handsome Omar Sharif in person, I would’ve been too busy for even a hello!
Impatient and a bit annoyed, I feel like I only get to write the beginnings of stories before they disappear in my head as instantly as a bursting soap bubble. It’s noon, I crack three small eggs into a hot frying pan. I sit to eat in front of my iPad, with a piece of bread, a cheese wedge and two slices of ham. Am I really hungry? I think about the businessman again. Will he like my homemade jams, my coloured outfits, my passion for words?
A few days later, Natasha tells me that the travelling suitor is back in Montreal and he’d like to have breakfast with me this Saturday. He’d book a table at Leméac, a chic and popular French bistro.
– “What do you say, Claudia?” she asks me.
– “It’s perfect! I know the place and I’ll be there at 10.”
Very early that Saturday morning, I try on so many outfits that it makes my head spin. I try on a red dress that’s perhaps a tad too bold, a pink one that may be too light for autumn and a blue one that’s simply too short. Finally, I opt for light grey pants and a matching sweater.
He arrives smartly dressed and as serious as a Pope. He’s booked a table for four right in the middle of the restaurant.
– “Nice to meet you, dear Sir. Are you waiting for someone else?”
– “I like being comfortable in these busy and over-crowded restaurants. I prefer a large table with plenty of space.”
– “Would you have preferred going to the Ritz?”
– “It’s all the same. Too ordinary and expensive! At least here, the excellent smoked salmon brings in the guests.”
– “I agree! It’s also my favourite dish.”
We should get along just fine! But disenchantment quickly sets in when he nearly berates a waiter in training for suggesting red wine instead of white to accompany the fish. He eats his fill in no time and doesn't bother to treat me to dessert. Neither one of us has even finished our glass of wine. Once again, I conclude, I’ve wasted my time. As we exit the restaurant, he invites me to take a short stroll to help digest the meal. Surprised by his suggestion, I nevertheless agree. Fifteen minutes are enough to soothe the curmudgeon’s mood. He throws a few compliments my way and invites me over to his place, a big house on the waterfront, near Montreal. For heaven’s sake, how disappointing!
– “The staff have the weekend off, and you can even stay the night if you like,” he dares say.
– “No, no! No, thank you!” I’m stunned.
A few more steps and he stops. A driver with a white cap opens the back door of a luxury car that I don’t recognize.
– “Darling, let’s go for a ride in my brand-new Bentley!” he says to lure me into the backseat of his big, fancy car. I flatly refuse. “No, no!” I remain on the sidewalk for a moment, looking for my Mini. I see it, one block away from the large Bentley. I’m off, almost at a run. I unlock the Mini, open the door, dive in and quickly lock the doors.
TO BE CONCLUDED.
Cora
❤️
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March 16, 2025
A matchmaker named Natasha – Chapter 5
I quickly forgot the matchmaker’s good advice. Would I be recognized at every street corner? It had never even crossed my mind. The former philosophy teacher certainly had the means to treat me to brunch at the Ritz, and that’s just dandy. But a woman like me doesn’t go unnoticed; the matchmaker should’ve warned me to be more discreet, at least in the beginning.
– “Yes, Natasha. I should’ve avoided the Ritz and the places I used to go to in my days as a businesswoman so I wouldn’t be recognized.”
Public personalities often find it harder to meet people who are genuinely interested in them as a person, rather than in their social life or bank account. If the redhead hadn’t recognized me, with my fictitious name, the maître d’ served my real identity to him on a silver platter.
Seated in front of me at the table, this first suitor acted as though he had no idea who I was. A regular at the Ritz himself, he asked me a few basic questions such as “have you ever been married?” “Are you widowed or single, and since when?” “Do you still work?” And so forth. He eventually suggested we move to the hotel bar, adjacent to the lobby, for a digestif. And I accepted!
– “Limoncelli, amaretto, cognac, port or Mandarine Napoléon liqueur?”
– “I’d really like a third latte, please. I don’t like alcohol very much, but I love coffee!”
Comfortably seated on the grand hotel’s new blue couch, the redhead man is talking about travel. He shows me his plane ticket, destination Dubai. Although I’ve had three lattes, my mind and heart dry up.
– “When are you leaving,” I ask, to make conversation.
– “On Thursday, in exactly 5 days!” he replies enthusiastically.
– “When do you get back?”
– “I have an open ticket. Maybe it will depend on you!”
– “What do you mean?”
– “Let’s rent a room and have a bit of fun!”
YUCK, YUCK and again, YUCK! HELP!
Back at home, I kneel and thank the great Manitou and all their angels for saving me from disgrace. A few days later, I tell Natasha about my breakfast at the Ritz and she blames me for not listening to her warning to keep away from spending too much time in his company. I spent nearly five hours with the handsome Casanova!
The matchmaker suggests a second candidate. She cautions me that he’s a very nice man but tremendously miserable. The wife he adored passed almost a year ago and his three daughters, all musicians, insist that their father rekindle his joy for living.
Since I’m more familiar with the process now, I agree to meet this second shiny knight. Would these daughters have an orchestra conductor for a father? I can’t wait to hear a bit of music!
I take Natasha’s advice and we have an initial telephone conversation. Everything seems to be going well! Not a single false note. I’ll try my luck and meet the next promising candidate in person. To my surprise, I learn that he resides just a dozen kilometres away from me. He texts me the address of a restaurant a good distance away, in Laval. Did his daughters pick the place?
I arrive first and look for an inconspicuous table to hide at. A waiter with a long black apron appears and offers me something to drink while I wait for my date. I order a large coffee, with two creams.
– “Tell me, young man, where is the washroom?”
When I return to the table, an elderly bald man is struggling to stand up to shake my hand. Yet he squeezes my hand so firmly that I’m certain he’ll keep it forever! I immediately get the sense that, in his place, a few tears are instead speaking to me. I try to be nice, but the words coming out of my mouth drown in sorrow. He’s forgotten his reading glasses, and so I read him the menu. He suddenly remembers that during his last visit there with his dear deceased wife, they’d both eaten shepherd’s pie.
It’ll be shepherd’s pie for Mr. Bernard, and for me, singlehood until I’m a hundred!
TO BE CONTINUED.
Cora
❤️
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