My oh my, that little granddaughter of mine is just the loveliest little thing in the world. She’s so sweet, and pays attention to every little thing you say. I tell you, she’s the most precious thing in the world to me. I love watching her play with the other little kids here on the beach in Nice. She’s only six, mind you, but she’s very mature for her age. Just to give you an idea of the divide between us, I myself am eighty-five and I’ve been a grandmother for six years. I had to spend a long time waiting and hoping for my little granddaughter to be born, because Margot – that’s my daughter, and my granddaughter’s mother – had terrible difficulty bringing a child into the world. But all that’s over now, thank God. Every morning I wake up and get a pile of hugs from my little granddaughter. “I love you, mamie!” she tells me. “Mamie, will you take me to school?” she asks. “Mamie, will you read me a story?” she begs. And I’m happy to. What could be better than a fable from Lafontaine? They’re so beautifully told, and Annie adores them. That’s her name, you know – Annie. Sometimes she falls asleep on me, and then I cover her with a blanket until she wakes the next morning.
When the dawn comes, I have to wait a long time to see her wake up – not because she likes to sleep late, you understand, but rather because I myself, being an octogenarian, am awake from four in the morning. My daughter Margot’s apartment overlooks the beach, right at the top of the Promenade des Anglais. This apartment has been a real blessing for our little family. When I wake, I pour myself a big bowl of black coffee and sit out on the balcony. I stopped smoking a long while ago, would you believe? When I found out that I’d be able to see my little granddaughter, touch her hand and know her smile, I stopped that very instant. It’s been six years already since Annie was born, and every morning when she wakes up I feel the same joy as I did the day she was born. She was so calm, and had green eyes. I’ll tell you something, I may be eighty-five, but I don’t think of my days as being numbered. At my age, you’re free to sit on the balcony and wait patiently for dawn to creep over the horizon. A thin sliver of light peels over the water, and then the sun rises over the city of Nice. A car or two begins to trundle down the Promenade des Anglais. There’s still a while to wait before Annie wakes up, though. Here she comes now! “Mamie, I was looking for you!” she exclaims.
A soft-boiled egg will be ready too quickly; I wish she preferred them hard as rocks. Every second with my granddaughter counts; every minute, every quarter-hour. It won’t be long before it’s time for her to catch the bus to school. Yesterday was Sunday, when she was swimming and diving into the waves, building sandcastles with her little bucket and spade. I watched her the whole time, and could have gazed at her forever, deep in thought as I was. “Mamie, look at me!” she cried, wanting to show me how she could dive from the rocks. I’d applaud and say, “Bravo, my little darling!” All week long I look forward to Friday coming so I can spend two whole days with her, then Monday comes around again. Soft-boiled eggs are ready too quickly! Then she’s off to school. Tonight there will be chores, and a fable from La Fontaine at bedtime.
I’ll let you in on a secret – my days are numbered, but I’m not worried about a thing.
Alan Alfredo Geday