Our house

I wanted to close the door nothing to regret, our vacancies, our moments of life, to contemplate the sky of summer together, the winter flames of the chimney. As the car descends the road bordered of trees, I try to recall me. Like a test to remember me, to know that I am able to retain. This long staircase which I saw for the last time descending until me. You were not in top, you are not it any more since so a long time. I do not remember really any more this image where you descended it while running. They are not so old but I forgot does not want me. I looked at for the last time this staircase while thinking of you. I miss your presence so much. I make pretense of living without. Solid like a rock, fragile like an idol with feet of clay. With the bottom of the staircase, there was the old settee where we came to crumble after our races in the meadows. By decency, I covered it with a white cloth. I had the impression to place on the shades of our lives the final veil which will choke them. It is that which touched me the most. I closed again the door without more anything to look at. I had promised it. I was sure any more of nothing, neither of me, nor of this desire for selling the house of our passion. Without you, it was an empty shell. At the time to leave it, I understood that she belonged to my life even without you. You will live it forever. I will not return there. I would not have of it soon more the key. One day next somebody will open the door, will penetrate in our paradise. He will remove the cloth of the settee, will consider it too old, worn. Like our memories, our lives which this house sheltered. The road between the trees is completed. I remember the first time where we made the opposite way; me leading, you anxious to discover. In top, behind a wall, the foliage of thickets, the house appeared. Now, I do not see it any more in the rear view mirror. The trunks of the trees of the winter hide it to me. It is the moment that I feared more. That of knowing that all is finished. I had not imagined it a kind. A bunch of memories attack me, torture me. I want to preserve some one killing you the staircase in this first morning from summer throwing you in my arms.