To my Dearest Friend

weighing down

Émile de Polignac

I look up at the sun so it shines in my face as I climb the moutain. I have tears of frustration and exhaustion in my eyes. My heart weighs me down and it burns with self-hatred and anger as I hammer my pitons in between the rocks. I wonder if a life would be easier to if we wouldn't have something we call a soul. It only hurts, and how it hurts. It's like I am carving into my heart just like these pitons are carving in this stone. I hate pitons they're impractical, but they're safer than nothing. I almost slip, I tell myself to attention.

I reach the top and push myself up. I look out over the outstrechted forest and feels tear roll down my cheek. It is beautiful. I smile, I think I have done the right thing for myself. I have saved my heart. I could not have saved him and we both knew he could never have loved me. Not truly. So letting go is the only thing that wouldn't hurt. Though it is very scary, imagine being almost done climbing and losing your grip. Your heart would stop for a second, your soul would remember it's existence and you would remember to pray to God if you are lucky, even if you don't believe in him. Because we humans are scared of all the things we do not know, and the biggest mystery in our world will always be those two, death and love. I close my eyes and the sun warns my face to assure me I will find someone who will love me.

I take a deep breath, how can I believe after all these incidents. Perhaps I need to accept myself for what I am, a desire, a beauty, something like to a pearl, hard to obtain, incredibly expensive but such a good thing to show off. Something to wear, something to use.

I breathe in the soul and life of the forest. I breathe out an my breath makes a little cloud of oxygen in the cold morning. I smile, as cnildren we would pretend to be dragons, spitting fire just like the dragon in old tales of knights ans princeses. Or we would mimic my father's and mother's smoking, we'd make fun of the parading people in front of our house with their noses in the air and strange intricate dresses which were mismatched with their husbands suits.If we were lucky my father would participate in the mocking. I smile, life was easy back than. Now I myself am these very same people parading in front of our house, only difference is that I have no wife who has a burning hatred towards me. And for that I should be eternally grateful. I grab a book from my shoulderbag and open it. It's the picture of Durian grey. I never read it before but Cyril owned a cope altought he never let me read it so I bought my own. I wonder why I wasn't allowed to read it. but I wonder a lot. You think too much. I would say to myself If I were to meet me, but I am not certain what I would mean by it.

'Hello there little crying son' I hear my father's soft voice. I look at him, he smiles and sits down beside me. 'I am getting old. climbing isn't what is used to be.' he says while ruflling through his hair. I chuckle. 'What did you expect father?' I ask jokingly. he chuckles.

We sit there in silence for a moment before he sighs and says under his breath, 'So I expect Cyril chose for Yves?' I take a deep breath, asking myself why he knows so much while I did not tell him very much. He smiles modestly and wraps his arms around me in his signature fatherly half hug. I smile a smile that shows the hidden pain I have somewhere deep inside me. I can't seem to find a good word for all the pain. 'He didn't but I chose for myself father'

He sighs, and looks at the pearls ring he is wearing, I wonder why, He looks at me and looks at the string of pearls that I am wearing and I always wear when there is no special occasion. He looks at it and lets the pearls pass through his hands. 'Do you remember when I gave you this string of pearls?' I nod. 'This one was one of the last ones someone very dear gave to me. It was their standard gift as the pearls were expensive and he said their colour was perfect with my hair.' I look at him and wonder where tnis story is leading, he never tells stories without a reason. He never talks about his youth.

'Was it mom? I ask. He shakes his head and chuckles "He was beautiful, dark hair. till his shoulders, perhaps bit shorter. Dark eyes that seemed green in the light if I remember correctly.... He would dress so elegantly, feminine almost, like youdo, Émile, like I do nowadase. He was almost a perfect mix between being handsome and pretty.' He smiles and I am confused as he speaks about a him. I knew my father was by no means conservative, he would call people with other preferences sexually free, he wouldn't belittle them. Sometimes to my mother's dledain. but with a husband as flamboyant as my father it would not matter what you'd say to him. But to hear a lover of the same gender out of my father's mouth surprises me.

'His name was Mathieu, he was an Brit, such a charming one at that' He says with a smile. I look at him, this in the one my mother always refers to when she is mad or when she is talking about the one who got away, I always thought it was her lover. This the one who got away.

'What happened?' I ask, 'his father wasn't happy with it. He had an arranged marriage, and his wife hated me with a passion. I married your mother and came to love her. But I must confess I still think of him. My darling. Mathieu Montague. That family has a habit of being enchanting.' He says and I realise a lot. That's why they have a portrait like that, that's why he is telling me this. I sit there in silence. Yves is the son of my father's former lover....

'I must way that you are right. It's a family full of beauty, but something about them seems twisted, sad, lacking something, miserable.' My father nods as he lights a cigarette and whispers:

'it is a lack of love'