There are many things about not having children that makes life an entirely exhilarating experience. An unadulterated sense of freedom, a ready access to peace and quiet.
It’s getting clearer and clearer that I’ll probably never be a mother, and it’s surprising to me – I am not sure how and why it happened, because unfortunately, I was never blessed with one of these profound “no kids for me!” instincts. I was never one to dream about motherhood either.
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I was woken up at 5am by a Tui bird singing so loudly, but so happily that I couldn’t really get mad at him. Since then he’s gone to bed, and now I am the only person up in the whole of New Zealand scrolling down my phone watching the sun rise as I am (still) trying to make something out of the year 2020.
Don’t hold your breath, because I absolutely can’t. But it’s okay, nobody knows what to think or where to go either.
I love this suspended week, the one right before the new year. If I am able to, I take a lot of time for resting and contemplating on the year past. I write, I sleep, I have conversations with my friends.
Then I dream about what the new year could be.
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My mother first set foot in France when she was fourteen, all skinny, curious and scared, hiding in my grandmother’s skirts. They came from Algeria a few years after the liberation, to find work and hope. My grandmother was tall and funny, and all she wanted was to make an honest living to see that her daughter and her son would have better lives than her own.
They settled in Corsica, where the first generation of immigrants from Maghreb were already making an impression.
