It was a very good day. So good that I had to talk about it.
It was a true saturday like I haven’t had for a long time. Because a saturday doesn’t have the same taste than the other days of the week, you’ll agree with me. There is a bit of party-theme in this last day of the week. You start to rest, you can afford to have some good time because you know you’ll have another day to rest. I’m not talking about saturday night, only about saturday the day which smells like holidays. Saturday night is glittering but it doesn’t have the splendor and the youth of saturday the day.
We were, my parents and I, at friends near the Brûlé, on the upper part of Saint-Denis (capital city). We ate a good rooster “à la créole”, drank some good wine and talked about latest news like “riots” (some young people recently protested about unemployment and increase of prices on the island). Then we lost ourselves in their garden amongst granadillas, custard marrows (also know as chayotes) and other endemic trees.
Slightly tipsy, I closed my eyes on the way back home, anticipating a potential blindness (I’m keeping on laser surgery to fix my pecky retinas). I let myself to all my other senses : wind on my cheeks and on my hair, smells of fresh greenery and movements of the brusque driving of my father. To the right, to the left, careful, a car on the side of the road. And a last shiver listening to an electric guitar of Supertramp.
I’m opening again my eyelids and vacoas (local tree) shadows are black lace cut by the sunset.