Broken Wings

 

 

I grew up in a country you never knew, and spoke languages you never had time to learn. But I told you about these and you listened with your hazel eyes wide open.

When I was your age as in the above photo, we had a French language teacher who as a “punishment” for any misbehavior in class would assign a poem to learn and recite standing in front of the class, a couple days later. I loved that punishment as I loved poetry!

One of the poems I had to learn and recite 60 years ago was by Victor Hugo entitled “Demain, dès l’aube”. I did not understand the meaning of the poem, but like many other “punishment poems” I never forgot it.

Later in life, I learned that it was a poem about Hugo visiting the tomb of his daughter. And, for the past 19 years, on July 18, I recite the poem, alone.

This year, I wanted to share it with you. So I looked for an English translation and found one by Camille Chevalier-Karfis that I think you will like.

The poem starts with Hugo getting ready to leave at dawn for the journey to his daughter’s tomb. The first two opening lines are:

 

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.

(Tomorrow, at dawn, in the hour when the countryside becomes white,
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.

 

And the poem ends with two simple lines:

 

Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

(And when I arrive, I will put on your tomb
A green bouquet of holly and flowering heather.)

 

 

…It is said that memories are a weight we carry on our back. They have weight and affect our movement through the journey. Through the passage. Through the passing.

Memories can be heavy as rocks. Memories can also be colourful and light as feathers. Both rocks and feather have weight. But feathers become wings and lift us up.

 

I have learned about the meaning of Hugo’s poem and the weight we carry through memories. But I have not learned how not to miss you. The dirt I threw on your grave 19 years ago had the heritage of rocks. But your memory became my wings. You still make me soar over moments that could have broken my back.

 

 

July 17, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024