At the end, I burst into tears. There were so many things I wanted to write and say, but in the end Germain read a little poem, the simple note receded along the road where Chez Francine's green small truck wheel rolled, and everything didn't need to be said, just cry quietly. .
C'est une rencontre pas ordinaire,
Entre amour et tendresse.
Elle avait pas d'autre adresse.
Elle avait un nom de fleur.
Elle vivait au milieu des mots,des adjectifs tirés pas les tifs, des verbes qui poussent comme des herbes.
Y en a qui passe en force,
elle est passée en douceur, de mon écorce, à mon coeur.
Dans les histoires d'amour, il ya pas toujours que de l'amour.
Parfois, il ya même pas de 'je t' aime'.
Pourtant on s'aime.
C'est une rencontre pas ordinaire.
Je l'ai trouvée pas hasard sur un banc de mon square.
Germain dragged his body and panted to work several jobs, drinking and teasing his friends, cramming in an RV with his driver's girlfriend, and having a crazy mom to take care of. He stubbornly writes his name on the monument every day, he can distinguish various varieties of tomatoes, and he is good at carpentry. Ordinary people have nothing to say. One day when I was counting pigeons, I met a 95-year-old old lady and read to him, and slowly let a naive worker without childhood discover another world and the warmth of motherly love in the book.
In fact, this is a story that no one cares about except themselves.
But the warmth of this ordinary world, not sensational, not pretentious, is so tear-jerking.
Maybe because Germain named all 19 pigeons?
Princesse,Cachou,Pierrot,Cocotte,Voleur, Boiteux,Bouboule,Marguerite,Têtu,Moche,
Biscotte,Jeannot,Plume blanche...
Maybe because in the story of love, not only love,
but also the feathers of doves, Old dictionaries, wooden walking sticks, shelves full of books, wrinkled faces, chili shirts, fennel and sandwiches...
"Dis donc, ils ont l'air toujours aussi fameux, vos sandwichs."
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