My God, how long and winding the path is, how dark the woods...
My daughter clings to my arm as we move slowly forward. Around a bend in the road, a large stone blocks our way. This obstacle is nothing compared to Beatrice's handicaps. We circle around the stone while smaller ones slip beneath our feet. Life flows like this around Beatrice, who advances with an air of indifference to everything around her. Each morning, she comes to me crawling, then pulls herself up when a chair or table happens to cross her path. We move forward with ease, in silence. On the hillside I see small wildflowers: they fill me with sweetness and trust—like Beatrice when she smiles in delight. She can express all the sweetness and all the trust of her twenty years. We walk along the slope, past some oak trees. How beautiful they are, how pure in their soaring profile! They make me think of my son, who is now able to manage his own life.
To our right, near a crossroads, stands an oak tree centuries old. In autumn, it will drop its acorns once more.
Its roots, intact after all these centuries, fill me with security, give me hope.
We continue walking. The wheat stalks are golden and heavy, promising a good harvest. Suddenly, an enormous pit blocks our path—an abandoned quarry whose supports have given way from use. Looking at the emptiness, Beatrice grips my arm more tightly. I stand still.
My daughter shakes me; why stop? The sun is sinking toward the horizon, and we draw near the farmhouse. Beatrice follows her father into the stable and helps him remove the crackling straw—for me it is like a song. In front of the house is a large meadow: I see my son petting the calves. As a child, did he have the caresses and attention he needed while I was so occupied with his sister?
Soon, I must prepare dinner: some carrots, a few leeks, two potatoes; the soup will be ready quickly. As always happens, we finish eating and Beatrice has barely begun. I stay beside her, thinking of all I still need to do. My mind turns back to moments in my past life, when I became incomprehensible to anyone who drew near me, so closed off in my shell—which was then my strength—only to find myself alone afterward, cut off from the world.
Yet every time I fell into the deepest depths of depression, the voices of the children would ring out loudly within me and I would return to my tasks. Not even my family, not my friends or neighbors, could understand my anguish, my sleepless nights. Despite my extraordinary activity and ceaseless occupations, the house had an air of abandonment.
I do not know how I managed to hold on during that time. I have often thought of that deportee forced to walk, together with his companions, dozens and dozens of kilometers in exhaustion: he knew that to avoid collapse, he had to keep his gaze fixed on the person ahead of him and follow their steps carefully. In precisely the same way, Jesus asked me to place my steps behind his.
- Gilberte Roger, 1990
(O. et. L. n. 88)