Mme Cora's letter

Do you remember, dear readers, a lady named Isabel who has interviewed me a few times already? This time, she wants to know more about the writer I am becoming. I accepted, of course, because I believe this young journalist has great ideas. And just maybe this new book of mine that is about to hit bookstores deserves a few praises. Let me go through her list of questions and answer them one by one with you. — “As an author, what is your greatest desire?” — “My greatest desire is to live until I am a hundred. I don’t want to beat any longevity record, but I do want the opportunity to write for as long as I can. The more I write, the more I improve. I’m a bit of a perfectionist and I like to embellish everything I do. Words are my favourite battlefield; the clumsy, the lame and the scatterbrain have no place between my lines. Writing and becoming an entrepreneur both came to me later in life. I opened the very first restaurant of an eventual country-wide chain the day I turned 40, and a worldwide pandemic threw open the doors to writing at 72. — “When and how did writing come to you?” — “In September 1954, when I started first grade, I was immediately astonished by the power of the letters of the alphabet and I quickly learned how to build words and sentences. My parents’ wretched life rubbed off on us kids. I had made a habit of writing on any piece of paper I could find in the house. The extraordinary strength of words has been with me ever since.” — “What do you believe in, Madame Cora?” — “I believe in the creative force of life and in He who first said, “Let there be light.” Even when it’s at rest and covers its eyes with darkness, Light is there. In my opinion, a divine temporal program exists that keeps on going forever.” — “Name a flaw you have that you can easily forgive yourself for.” — “Maybe overeating at times since I have to taste everything we serve and think of serving to our valued customers. Thirty-six years later, I am still adamant about sticking with the Cora concept.” — “What word best describes you?” — “There’s more than one! I am the guardian of colourful words – a relentless scribe, constant and creative enough to entertain a great number of readers every Sunday.” — “Is it easy to write?” — “It’s very easy to write when you believe in the magical powers of words, with their unique way of sowing elaborate sentences between the lines.” — “Where do you find your inspiration?” — “Here, there and everywhere! The glorious banality of everyday life is my first source of inspiration. Writing in a coffee shop offers me a window onto the great show of life. From the strange expression on a new customer’s face to the outline of their precious heart. I observe, I search, I scrutinize and I fantasize until I finally discover what this enigmatic smile is made of. After four days, four weeks, a newcomer often becomes a regular in this place.” — “Do you have a peculiar habit, a certain ritual or perhaps even an obstacle when it comes to your writing?” — “I have always been more patient than patience itself when it comes to writing. When a good idea comes to mind, I store it on my notepad and wait. When the idea unfolds ever so slightly in my mind, I type a few sentences on my iPad to capture the gist of the story. Then, line by line, I move forward. I plead to Lady Inspiration and the Fairy Godmother to bring me elaborate words, and paragraphs tumble down from the heavens into my mind and build the story. I am obsessed with improving, so I read and re-read my copy until my eyes are sore. I want to constantly progress as a writer. Perhaps I should have more confidence in my talent?” — “What state of mind are you in when you write?” — “I’m the happiest of women when I write. Open to inspiration and privileged, I’d say. I’m not a professional writer, so I never expect great reviews. I remain modest and trust in what the future holds.” — “What can you tell us about your new book that’s coming out on September 27?” — “I think it’s a solid start for an old woman who’s trying her hand at writing. I have this burning flame of hope within me. My mind remains like fertile soil, where all I have to do is pull the young shoots out of the void and wait for them to bloom when they’re ready. Writing strengthens my patience, endurance and will. ‘Only good things,’ as Sister Marie-Ange, my third-grade teacher in Gaspésie, would say.” Cora ❤

I have a terrible story on my mind and I would like to get it out before my memory slumbers forever or suddenly fails me. It’s about a person whose name I never knew. A dishevelled man, dressed in rags and foul smelling, begged on the streets of Montreal 9 or 10 months a year. I would see him every day around 5:50 p.m. when I would walk across the park to my apartment. I stared at him, scrutinized him and inhaled his scent of sour milk. I soon learned from my next-door neighbour that the beggar’s name was Arthur, and such was his kindness, he would always share with those poorer than him if he could. According to my neighbour, the first snowstorms sent him on his way each year hitchhiking westward. In Vancouver’s warmer weather, Arthur spent a few months each year collecting used syringes and debris left behind by drug addicts living on notorious Hastings Street. He fed the afflicted, consoled the desperate and encouraged young addicts to get help. Arthur also begged from time to time, gathering quarters to help feed homeless persons in greater need. He lived off soda pop and fried-noodle leftovers from local Asian eateries. I crossed paths with him often in Montreal. Arthur always had a strange way of moving as if he had been stung in the behind. He hobbled, swayed, dragged his leg and yelled at the flies to leave him alone. In my last year of college, my father had rented a room for me downtown so I could avoid the long commute from our house in the suburbs. That’s how I came to cross paths with homeless Arthur each weekday. I had many questions after learning his story from my neighbour. Who was this mysterious man? How long had he been begging for money on the streets? Instead of leaving my small room during the Easter holiday weekend, I decided to stay in town and secretly observe Arthur. I was going to sit in the park with the morning paper and a notebook and pretend to work on a mystery novel. I arrive very early at the deserted park on Good Friday. The wet grass moistens my boots. I wave to a young policeman on a bike. At the back of the park, under a huge oak tree, a few drunks are sleeping off a night of drinking. Cheerfully trampling the slumbering bodies, dozens of squirrels search for acorns for their breakfast. Sitting on the bench shivering, I pretend to write. I have just read about police captain Jacques Cinq-Mars’ latest exploits in the newspaper and I try to imitate his brilliant skills. The famous officer, nicknamed Montreal’s Eliot Ness, suddenly consumes my thoughts. Where has the unkempt, big-hearted drifter gone? My eyes search the horizon. Nothing. Four elderly women are walking towards me. They make a sharp right and head straight for a picnic table where they sit and speak in hushed voices, as if they have something to hide. The early morning is long gone and its dew is evaporating. My mystery novel is going nowhere. I’m guessing Arthur is still asleep since I still haven’t caught sight of him. Is he waiting for the cicadas to wake him from his slumber; for the warm spring wind to brush his cheek; or for the first raspberries of the season to ripen? It’s high noon and my eyes search everywhere. They knit together clouds of worry. Where on earth is Arthur? He is nowhere to be found. One by one, the drunks under the big oak tree wake up crumpled like doormats. Would they have seen Arthur? Did they steal from him, rough him up and then hide him? It’s a different police officer on the bike now. I’m hungry and thirsty, and my legs are numb and hurting. I get up and walk a little. The four elderly women are still whispering. As I move closer to their table, I realize that their tone has changed. The oldest one speaks louder and faster, as if charging towards something terrible, threatening and scary. What a strange sensation! In the distance, a siren cuts the air. The four women jump up from their table and run towards an ambulance. A crowd of onlookers circles the park. I try to question a few of the homeless, but no one answers me. They all know what’s going on, but they keep quiet. Several regulars pack up their few belongings and leave. They must be frequent visitors to the park – neighbours, tired passersby, well-dressed elderly folks, artists waiting for inspiration, people out for a stroll and maybe even those out of work. The next morning, I return to my park bench and start writing in my notebook as planned. I spend a few hours there. Several tears dilute my fear. Arthur had died. I eventually heard that his big heart had stopped beating around 3 p.m. on Good Friday, April 12, 1968. His body, stripped and fatally beaten, was found in an adjacent alley. Later I learn in Journal de Montreal that Captain Jacques Cinq-Mars was handling the investigation. I also find out a few weeks later that Mr. Arthur V. was once a wealthy and well-known man who had suffered terrible hardships. His wife and four children had perished abroad in a fire at one of their vacation homes. Arthur wanted to give all his possessions away, so he spent the rest of his life helping the needy. To this day I regret my furtive surveilling of homeless Arthur. Appearances are often misleading. Cora ❤

Saying YES to life is to agree to what happens, to whatever comes our way. I never rebelled against the various trials of my life. I would take the blows and write in secret. It was my way of resisting the hostility I had to face for many long years. Writing, even when the tears fell onto the ink and turned it into small watercolours, allowed me to mark my passage through time and to leave points of reference like lighthouses along this horrible odyssey. My notepad didn’t register dates, just the facts. The daily calamities, the explosions of sadness, the unfairness of fate, the bitterness stuck to my skin, the threatening despair and the endless resentments I reluctantly harboured. According to author Hélène Dorion in her wonderful book RECOMMENCEMENTS (“New Beginnings”), “our way of loving has its source in childhood, through the satisfaction or not of our basic needs, and through the defining emotional experiences that we have then. Paradise or agony, this is where our wounds are deepened or our first vision of love and connections are built.” I definitely missed the boat when it came to affection, tenderness, learning the way of life and love, this unfathomable treasure that insures the perpetuation of species. Married without a warning, I already bore in my abdomen tiny toes, a visible reproductive organ, an embryo that would soon leave its sanctuary. When the time came, the child refused to face the outside world. He had to be ripped out of my womb with a horrible, tong-shaped metallic instrument. His frail frame was marked permanently on his right forehead as a result. All these shreds of history drift along in my head; like a wandering mosaic of corrosive details. Every makeshift apartment during my wedded years. The cheaper shabby third floors with their endless and dangerous stairs. The cockroaches who invaded the kitchen at night. The make-do clotheslines strung across the rooms. Not a single painting, plant, chesterfield or rug. Everything was secondhand, old and threadbare. I keep on writing because the words overflow in my mouth. I write, I strike out, I compose. Always, the ink wriggles about. Some paragraphs are only tiny vestibules; killer sentences that will never make it into the house; horrible thoughts that agitate and torment my mind. These places from childhood, these gestures and words will they ever flee my memory? Sitting on the blue couch, my feet barely touching the ground, I may be 4 or 5. I’m sad like slowly falling rain. Dad is listening to Mario Lanza. A few large tears roll off his cheeks and disappear into the abyss. I want to touch them, to take his big fingers in my small hand and cry alongside him. Chop, chop, chop. In the kitchen, Mom’s mincing an onion for the stew she’s making for dinner. She’s put on her white gloves; they soak up the juice the onion lets out with each slice. Chop, chop, chop. Diced carrots jump into the white tin bowl. My sentences are sprinkled with bits of dreams and reality, immaterial existences often more talkative than young eagles. These days, I am discovering the work of Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer. I bless his incredible writing ability, his clever blend of allegories and faithful descriptions of the natural and cosmic universe. I really like this poet who, in a series of interior experiences, relentlessly explored the great mysteries of life. Inspired by this master, I would love to compose illuminating sentences, snowstorms without cold, love stories without irritations. “LOVE YOUR FATE” is my motto today. Say YES to life and to everything that happens to me. I have divine assurance that an angel is tracing my way forward and, and with infinite patience, he’s polishing my best sentences. Cora ❤

Nature amazes me, with the brightness of the sun, the sweet feeling of a warm breeze, the songs of birds and the aroma of raspberries. My mind drifts back in time and I find myself near the stream on Grandpa Frédéric’s land. I can see his wrinkled fingers teaching me how to put a worm on a hook; the pink flesh of the small trout in the pan; the capelins flopping on the beach by the thousands in the spring; the big cod, caught by the belly and so incredibly delicious. I remember it like it was just yesterday. The fish was boiled with bacon bits, cooked to a crisp in the pan, transformed into fritters with potatoes or salt-dried and eaten with the fingers. We lived off the sea. To this day, four or five of my weekly dinners consist of its delicacies. I used to follow Grandpa in the winter too. I would make my way behind him in the snow, my small boots trying to step into his big footprints. My eyes swept the path ahead and saw the white hare before he did. I laughed and cried in front of the small trapped animal. Grandfather quickly put it in his bag. I knew it was going to end up in late grandmother’s famous recipe. At the table, I told him it was good as a few tears slipped down my cheeks and into the sauce. What a delight it was to finally turn six! I loved school. I was learning how to read and write words, and my heart felt lighter. I composed short poems and I quickly learned to express myself through writing, a habit that persists today. Putting one word after the other, I climbed the ladder of time, always on the lookout for sparks of happiness. One afternoon spent hunting four-leaf clovers, another lavishing my proud lupines with attention. I found myself embellishing my flowerbeds and my heart at the same time. The irresistible scent of ripe fruit swept over me. I picked wild strawberries in the wooded area on my lot. I destemmed them one by one before placing them in my basket like Mom taught me. My native Gaspésie is always in the back of my mind like an old classic movie; a chronological repertoire of the best moments. Everything is there in my memory, moving like the undulations of the river. I remember how brave we were when we used to climb onto the enormous ice blocks floating on the river in Sainte-Flavie. Mother forbade it, of course, and yet my brother still insisted we do it. He wanted to plant his flag, but the hard ice never yielded. Let’s think about it. Let’s look for shortcuts to these micromoments of happiness. Let’s grab the tiny stars fluttering above our heads. Happiness is celestial food that prolongs our life span, I am sure of it. I’m a youthful 20-year-old when I talk to a century-old tree; when I slowly devour a poem, line by line; when an old friend tells me about his most recent flirtation or when my granddaughter invites me to the restaurant for dinner. Let’s learn about life’s magic – all these moments that appear unreal but are just as true as good news that arrives unannounced. I often get the feeling that the older I get and appreciate things, the more easily I marvel at what surrounds me. Every microsensation of happiness thrills me: breathing in the fresh morning air, napping on the couch in the middle of the afternoon, washing my hair with rainwater, soothing an itch with the help of five metal fingers on the end of a stick, drinking my coffee piping hot, succeeding in eating more fruit than bread, taking selfies for my Sunday letters, writing even when I’m asleep. I’m not kidding! It happens that a stroke of genius wakes me in the middle of the night and I grab my notepad. I enjoy being at writing’s service, being its researcher, prospector, storyteller and the one who strings its words together using a keyboard. For the longest time I thought I would TAKE CARE OF MYSELF LATER. But you know what? My LATER arrived A LONG TIME AGO! Come to think of it, deciding to take care of ourselves later is presumptuous. How do we know what will be in our control a day, a week or a year from now? The power we feel is an illusion. On the other hand, our power to live in the present is very real; just like our right to choose happiness. Don’t put off these micromoments of happiness until tomorrow, these sparks of joy that surround us and are within our grasp. Think about it. Life is so short and rarely do we allow ourselves to feel the wonder in front of us. Cora ❤

Dear readers, I am surprised and amazed as I realize this morning that I’m writing my 200th Sunday letter. Time really does fly by. Believe it or not, I wrote the first Sunday letter on April 1, 2020, while most of the planet was in mandatory lockdown. Everything was closed, including our restaurants, and it made us sad not to be able to serve our valued customers. We wanted to keep you in our hearts, so we started serving you encouraging dishes of comforting words and stimulating thoughts. With each letter we gained more followers and readers, and you are now thousands of eyes that are hungry for well-written phrases and passionate stories every Sunday. My soul flutters just thinking about it. Everything my mind composed, all that my fingers have typed and all the love my heart has gathered. I imagine birds, hundreds of birds in a variety of colours, carrying my thanks to all those who’ve allowed me to write. Beginning with those who inspire me, who read me, those who translate my every word, those who correct them and those who send them through the magic tunnels of social media until they appear, safe and sound each Sunday, on our dear readers’ screens. From afar, I see royal eagles like splashes of ink in the sky. It must be them who carry my heaviest thanks, these praises addressed to the ethereal world. Thanks to inspiration, this creative breath, which, like an unstoppable rush of words, gives shape to my thoughts. Thanks to imagination, this divine fountain that never dries up and allows me to envision an entire forest from a small bush of wild weeds. Thanks to my precious writing skills I inherited from my mother. Sadly, I never knew she was passionate about writing until after she had passed. What a magnificent gift from such a quiet mother! Thanks to dauntlessness, this brave warrior who helps me deliver a full page each morning when I sit to write. Thanks to perseverance, who makes my words more original and my sentences more elegant. With their long crooked beaks, the big black crows protect my home, and it is I who thank them. For days on end, I write in the solarium following the rhythm of their coos and caws. I often get the impression that they’re simply after my attention. Very wise fairies also flitter behind the clouds. They’re waiting for my ink to dry, my body to fly away and my soul to split into a thousand starry commas. I live in the most complete state of gratitude; so much so, that sometimes it feels like it’s the words themselves who need me. They attract me like magnets; they lift up my sentences and throw them into the wind. I am thankful for my five senses that constantly work to enrich my well-being. To hear music, taste the first coffee in the morning or the sweetness of a ripe apple, see the sun go down in a purple blaze, feel my grandson in my arms and smell the sensational aroma of roses. What a delight! I thank my children, their children and my two great grandchildren who contribute to my happiness. I thank my unconditional friends, who are true guardian angels that live but a short distance away: Catherine, François, Neil, Éric, Adèle, Carmen, Patricia, Claude, Steven and Marie-Pierre. I thank all the great writers, poets and songwriters. All these fabulous creators amaze me and often teach me some new trick of the trade. Finally, I thank the chatterbox who lives inside my head. She possesses the instinctual reflex of imagination, which can’t be pinned down by reason. And then there’s the Chatty Cathy in my head, who’s always helping me to polish my story. She plants flowers in the margin, finds uncommon words, deletes useless adverbs and completes the story’s ending. Cora ❤

Finally! I’ll swear it on the holy book: I’m thrilled to be alive! On May 27, I plunged into the ocean of my 76th year, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Last night, I had dinner with my two great-grandsons, who were as happy as young frogs jumping into a bowl of chocolate. Their father and grandfather were there too, with the human bottle mom, ready to breastfeed between two bites of sushi. Being happy to be alive is understanding and appreciating what truly brings us joy. I guess each one of us is on a quest to find a happiness that’s in tune with our own reality: age, whether or not we’re in a relationship, work, family, creative interests or social life. One thing is certain, we all dream of being happy and content with the life we live. I thank the heavens every day for making me the way I am: reasonable and realistic. Just like everyone else, I’ve had my ups and downs, my miserable moments and my times of glory. I continue to have them. I’ve matured like a century-old oak tree: highly resistant and simple to please. At my age, I don’t have enough fingers to count my blessings to be able to do so many things: walking without a cane, living on my own in my bungalow, keeping up my home, cooking meals, driving my Mini Cooper, running my errands, devouring thick books with the help of reading glasses, and mostly, being able to think and write with a keyboard. All these daily activities make me utterly happy. I slip on a sexy pair of leggings, attach my bra, dry my hair, brush my teeth, apply cream to my face, pick out my coloured glasses and a shade of lipstick for the day. I just love to put my laundry on the clothesline to dry, water my lupine beds, tie my running shoes, stir my fruit jams and pedal on my stationary bike while watching fictional stories on the TV at night. I spent my entire career as a businesswoman imagining the inaccessible, setting the bar very high, chasing my unrealistic goals, counting each penny and fighting cyclopes who were unable to see the vision of where I was headed. Ensconced in my country home, I’m delighted with the simple life I live today and enjoy every single minute of it. Maybe you’ll think it’s because I’m happy-go-lucky, and you’d be right. A call from my grandson, a friend dropping by for a visit, a delicious apple pie, a nicely written letter, a friendly conversation… I take delight in all these little moments of happiness. Just like easygoing people, let’s try together to tame contentment – this precious elixir for happiness. Let’s enjoy small daily pleasures like a stranger’s smile, a good cup of coffee, a friendly conversation, a stolen kiss and all the nuggets of wisdom that can be found in the ordinariness of life, and whose value proves immeasurable. As Jacques Brel sings, “Let’s stop looking for perfection, the unattainable star.” Let’s stop looking for perfection in things, people and, above all, ourselves. Cora ❤

I am ecstatic, stunned, amazed and so very happy! The letter entitled “Writing in a coffee shop” published on July 2 generated over 400 delicious comments. Really! This flood of kind words has set my heart soaring and makes me believe that I’m headed in the right direction with my writing. When I was young, my mother insisted I learn piano, and for two long years, twice a week, I tapped and tapped on the keyboard without any improvement. I mixed up the notes: fa, mi, la, re, ti, do, so, and I didn’t know the difference between the white and black keys. All I ever learned from my piano sessions with my mother was to listen carefully when she insisted. If only she could see me today tapping away on my other keyboard, writing extravagant words and composing stories. Dear readers, I always read your comments with great interest and fondness. So much so, that my heart races every time. Today, I want to extend a very special thank you. Dear Eli L., THANK YOU for the kind words you had for me and thank you for reading me regularly. Yes, I have to admit that the coffee shop where I write is a nice place – warm, welcoming, where people naturally connect. If you lived in my area, you would certainly be our prophet Eli. He who listened to the Eternal’s word, telling him: “And it will be that you shall drink from the brook, and I have commanded the ravens to feed you there.” Eli, you must know that my village is overrun with these black birds. Dear Nicole D., I am so happy we have connected. Thank you for reading me and yes, a huge YES: writing is a very courageous act. Like you mentioned: “There are at least two of us who doubt our words and the traces they leave on a blank sheet of paper.” I must tell you that I am dying to meet you one day. We could share our anguish and our love of words, with this endless chatter in our minds that busies our fingers on our keyboards. Would you say this chatter is inspiration or pure madness? I still don’t know. Dear Nancy T., I look forward to seeing your beautiful face and knowing that you’re still with me every Sunday. You tell me there was a time when mass and dinner with the family was what brought people together on Sundays and that, today, my letters do the same? Thank you for the compliment; however even my best and most creative words here below could never replace the wisdom from above. Dear Danielle O., I beg you, please don’t be sad because I haven’t found my prince charming. Love is such a strange, mysterious, capricious and audacious thing. And no, I still haven’t found the love of my life. I studied for many longer years and, the dummy I am, forgot to learn how to love. I’m an old woman now and I still struggle to look a man in the eye. Let’s feast on the warm colours of summer instead, you and I, and enjoy it while it lasts. Dear Micheline P., CONGRATULATIONS and HAPPY 83rd BIRTHDAY, an occasion to celebrate in style! “Je sais, je sais,” (I know, I know), like the illustrious Jean Gabin said, “The day someone loves you, the weather is very nice.” Please know I love you and, if we were neighbours, we would chat merrily leaning on the backyard fence. You can only move forward. Old age is a carnival and we must do our best to enjoy every moment of it and make it last. Let’s rip off the pages of our calendars. Let’s stop calculating the years and make sure we can enjoy a few silly things here and there to keep us young at heart. A bouquet of flowers on the table, a few pieces of fudge, a new hairdo, a candy-coloured scarf. Let’s draw hearts instead of knitting them. One thing is certain: I am keeping you in my heart. Dear Carmen G., thank you for trusting me. I sympathize with your suffering, but this too shall pass, like everything does eventually here on earth. Life has a twisted sense of humour and tests us by deceiving us. We move right and then the left jumps on us. What’s the problem, dear friend? In your head, in your body or in your heart? I implore you, don't give up. Nice weather always follows after the rain. Dear Édithe P., you draw so well! I simply love your birds that look like they’ve spent the night on the town. The small blue curious one, the plump yellow one, the red one with its pointy nose, the green one who looks suspicious and the small purple one, with its head upside down. This type of drawing ignites my imagination. I’m convinced these pretty little birds are characters with stories to tell. The purple bird intrigues me; could he be a little troublemaker? I have to stop myself from writing it a letter. My very kind André G., thank goodness you are still here and I’m very happy about it! I am trying to improve the quality of my writing and I watch out for my adverbs. The great Stephen King, in his book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, taught me that an adverb is never a good friend. He also mentioned, in one of the last chapters, that “the road to hell is paved with adverbs.” Can you imagine, dear André, that while we were correcting the 70,000-word manuscript for my book, which will be published in late September, we noticed it contained the adverb “TELLEMENT” (so) 75 times! Unthinkable, but true! Stephen King would burn my fingers he knew. I’m an excessive person, extravagant, immoderate, fiery, exuberant and unconstrained. I dig deeply between the lines. We ended up cutting the number of TELLEMENTs in half. Cora ❤

The other day at Indigo, I was looking for the latest book by my favourite author, Tahar ben Jelloun, and found another gem instead: Les 50 règles d’or de la bienveillance (The 50 golden rules of kindness), by Anne-Laure Boselli. Perhaps you’ve already heard of this popular series of self-improvement books? I love these types of tips that we can immediately begin practising in our lives! I have always been fairly hard on myself. As I get older, I’m softening. My body, mind and especially my heart have softened! I’m eager to learn more about the benefits of kindness, and so I buy the book and lay down on my favourite couch with a thermos of coffee and my notepad to jot down the important bits. I read it almost in one go and I start a column of must-do’s to improve my behaviour. “Kindness is to approach others with a benevolent disposition.” According to Ms. Boselli, the essential qualities are goodness, kindness, empathy, compassion, altruism, trust, tolerance, indulgence and charity. I started in business as a poor mother with a broken heart, but I was plucky, unfamiliar with the work but very creative. I loved to cook, and above all, to dazzle our customers with my amazing breakfasts. Without realizing it, the kids and I created a new breakfast restaurant concept that quickly became wildly popular; so popular in fact, that we were able to open one restaurant after another. When we opened the ninth one, which was also our first franchise, I traded in my white cook’s apron for a big boss tailored suit. I admit it, my heart, mind and body had morphed into a CEO and I quickly hardened. I didn’t become mean, but I was demanding and uncompromising. I started in life with barely anything. I used to count every penny to make ends meet. And that habit has stayed with me. I was “tough, uncompromising and stern,” my daughter would say. After each new restaurant inauguration, I insisted on immediately planning the next opening. I was moving forward with giant strides, “like my behind was on fire,” my youngest son used to say teasingly. Despite strong currents and countervailing winds, a large chain of franchise restaurants saw the day. I couldn’t have been prouder. From Newfoundland to British Columbia, we had “Cora restaurants in every province,” I’d announce, puffing out my chest. I admit that on more than one occasion I would swell with pride as I contemplated my dizzying success. It’s not that I thought I was better than anyone else, I simply had become the bigwig of a Canada-wide media circus. I was learning how to tame lions, walk a tightrope and be the ball in the canon. In my mind, I had to put on a great show; otherwise the huge tent would collapse. The kids and I had overcome many childhood misfortunes. I wanted to ensure they’d at least have a better life. When I handed them the reins of the company, I slowly reverted to the ordinary woman I was before: a restless mother chomping at the bit. I had to go as far as China to finally succeed in cutting the steel-strong umbilical cord that attached me to everything I had brought to life. As part of a tourist group, I visited the 14 villages of Wuyuan that were open to foreigners. At one such village, I was put up in a small, modest room with a single bed, terracotta-type chamber pot, table, chair and a metal flask that I could fill with fresh water from a nearby well. I remember it fondly. A few minutes after I sat up in the room, an old Chinese woman dressed in a traditional crimson-coloured floral print dress brought me a food platter. This ageless woman was exceptionally kind. She had a gentle smile, and when she started to say a few words in broken English, I immediately felt her compassion. It was like she could feel the ball of grief burning in my heart. I wanted to explain my dismay, share my life story and how sad I was to have lost my reason for living. I hid my pain from my children, from the people at the head office and from the rest of the world. I thought I was brave and strong, yet this charitable Chinese woman could see right through my sorrow. She appeared like a kind angel. I was so lonely, so far away from my loved ones and I had an urgent need to purge my despair, to cut this terrible umbilical cord that kept me tied to the past. A miracle happened when she took my hand in hers and spoke. It was like I could understand and absorb each one of her words. My heart started to beat again, my body was unshackled and my smile was so big it embraced all of China. This woman’s kind heart healed and saved me. I never knew her name, age, language, customs or her life story, but I understood that she was a kind soul. A good, warm, empathic and compassionate human being. Perhaps I’m a cat with 9 lives. My hope, which could fill the heavens above, is that I will be able to keep writing until the end. I have no other havens than the hearts of my dear readers. They are the ones who welcome my words, heal my wounds, and keep me alive and effervescent. Cora ❤

8:05 a.m. at the coffee shop Could my heart be hardening? I don’t remember the last time I cried. Dry eyes, dry skin, dry mouth and the invasive dryness of old age. Thank goodness, my ink still flows. For the longest time I washed my hair with the water I collected from the clouds’ tears, just like my mother used to. When I was a child, I bawled for nothing and everything. I cried when my brother crumpled my drawing, stole my eraser or chewed on my colouring pencils. I sobbed when he put strawberries in my basket without destemming them first and when he hid his marbles to keep me from playing with them. I remember my brother as some sort of Dennis the Menace before his time.. Mother cried in her room or on the shoulder of our neighbour Mrs. Berthelot when Dad’s job as a travelling salesman would take him away on his business trips. During those years, misery looked like an Olympic-sized centipede capable of climbing anywhere and slipping into any crevice. When Dad came back on Friday nights and opened a bottle of beer while listening to Mario Lanza, our living room filled with sadness. I often wanted to dry the tears that fell on his big cheeks, but I didn’t. Our small bodies never got near the warmth of our parents. There were never any hugs, no pet names or kind words and never any rewards that might have made us feel like we were good kids. I guess our sorrows were washed into the sea when the tide went out and we grew up like wild weeds on the side of the road, without tenderness or solid guidance. The absence of love between our parents was like permanently living with a ghost in the room. I regularly heard them quarrelling late at night: my mother grumbled and my father wept. What else could I have done at that time but to believe that life was an unfair and unforgiving mistress who governed our lives? I knew nothing about the important things a young girl should know as she grows into adulthood. I cried night and day in silence every single year I was married: when the mother-in-law criticized how I cooked, when my sisters-in-law talked behind my back, each time the husband forbade me to see my parents and almost every night once the kids were asleep. My eyes were constantly tearing up as soon as I found myself alone in the apartment, behind closed doors. Eventually, I escaped with the children, and it’s as if the sky cleared and all the clouds dispersed. I rebuilt my life on solid ground. Day after day, I started believing in miracles, angels, fairy godmothers and in the helping hand of a superpower who exists is to love humans. My happiness now consists of dressing up the ordinariness of each day. Smile, lend a hand, acknowledge, give, pray, love and write. Writing to feed my lines, quench lonely hearts and ennoble my soul. I write almost anywhere, but I prefer the coffee shop, surrounded by people. I hear the music of their chitchat, and people send dozens of sweet hellos my way. One could think that the hustle and bustle of the place bothers me, but the opposite is true. I always have a smile on my face. Maybe that’s what I’ve taken away from all those years I worked in restaurants. From cook to boss, I loved being surrounded by customers. Today, I write. I compose delicious letters with the same enthusiasm I had when all I wanted was to please those sitting at our tables. I still love to serve you your first Sunday morning coffee, dear readers, and surprise you with an entertaining story. I especially love recounting everything there is to say on the great banality of everyday life. It’s my favourite theme.. The older I get, the less I cry. I learn to dedramatize my life, including even the smallest daily annoyances. I misplace objects; I lose my keys every other day, my sunglasses, my credit card holder, my grocery list and so on. I have my ways to foil my forgetfulness. l get around a bit slower than I used to. I think before I act; before leaving the house or coffee shop where I write, or heading off to the office twice a week. Did I forget something? Where is my cell phone? This electronic telecommunication gadget is absolutely essential for me. If I lose it, I’ll cry. Cora ❤

7:36 a.m. at the coffee shop I love using the word YES. Three small letters heavy with meaning. Yes, I love you. Yes, you can. Yes, I agree. Yes, I will help you. Yes, life is beautiful. This pretty little word, YES, glides on the horizon like a majestic eagle, and when the snow strikes at our cheeks, he transforms into Santa’s sleigh, filled with presents. The clear tweets of the goldfinch herald summer. Do you hear them? I hear the chirping of the skylarks with their tousled coif even in my slumber. I imagine their song like an orchestra of a thousand “yes, yesses” dressed in tuxedos. Three divine letters that can seal a marriage. Yes, yes! Or more like seal and destroy it within seconds, you’ll say. YES is probably the most important word in the dictionary. It may not be as decisive and sharp as NO, but it’s filled with hope. Do you think you could calculate the number of times you say YES each day? And maybe the number of NOs, too? Would you be more of a YES or a NO? I’m going to keep a notepad in my pocket and conduct my own investigation. I obviously think of myself as a YES as big as Everest! The NO is a bogeyman who scares me. NO often sounds like the pummeling of a hammer. As a child, all I ever heard were these short and decisive blows: no, no, no! My brother would only very rarely accept to play with us girls. He thought he was so smart. Sitting on the fence in our yard, he spoke of the future and the amazing professions he would later pursue. And we would laugh when we heard him list his future endeavours: elephant trainer in Kenya, magician, spy or the peninsula’s official thrift shop dealer. I dreamed of big YESSES at that time too. I would fill all the white papers I could get my hands on with black ink. I loved to write and discover new words and their meaning. When I was 11, I received a Larousse dictionary for Christmas and I was ecstatic. Every night, I fell asleep with the huge book of words held close to my heart. I was on cloud nine even when Mom occasionally complained because I asked her to iron pages I had accidentally crumpled. Really, this wonderful gift was the first of over 30 different dictionaries I bought over time and still keep close to this day. They fill the shelves of an IKEA library in my home. Even if I have Google at my fingertips, I still love to open a scholarly book. We hesitate between YES and NO very often. Is it possible that we are both brave and cowardly at the same time? I get the impression that YES is constantly opening its arms in a warm welcome. Would the NO be as important as the YES? A NO closes the door, if you ask me. It turns off the light and doesn’t hear the heart’s cries. It’s not easy saying YES, but saying NO is just as scary. NO bothers people. More often than not, it disappoints, angers and saddens the one who utters it. Perhaps we are incapable of choosing a side? To say YES or NO? Maybe it’s the head and the heart opposing each other? Would this mind that never rests be chattier than the heart? More analytical and thoughtful? We believe that the heart beats and that’s all. But the great inventor, mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal is remembered for his famous saying: “The heart has its reasons, which reason does not know.” Think about it. The heart beats fast or slow depending on what’s going on. Is it the centre of feeling, emotion and love with a capital L? Today, the symbol for the heart ♥ is universal and is part of the emotional symbolism of our culture. I recently experienced the most surprising moment of love at first sight simply by admiring the handsome face of a man from the Great North. I will never forget that sensation. I was quietly writing at the coffee shop when my heart started to beat uncontrollably. My heart went boom, boom! This stranger’s blue-black eyes pierced my own, and I felt like I was plugged into the world’s biggest hydroelectric plant. A million tiny YESSES were jumping in my head. A blissful happiness took over me and, when his eyes met mine, I suddenly felt so hot that I thought I’d have to jump into the ice floe to cool down. All this lasted for a brief moment; the time it took to bite into a few almond croissants and learn that the man was only passing through. If only! What is this divine electricity that pushes beings to seek another, to love and reproduce here on Earth? Am I going to have to question the angels for the thousandth time? Cora ♥