Childhood Memory: Poupoule

It has been really hot, so once again I’ll wait for daybreak before slipping into a cool bath. I’m going to lie down for a while. My nightgown clings to my skin, my braided hair has lost its shine, and damp strands frame my face. The slight coolness of the pillow feels wonderful. I call on Hypnose and Nyse to send me their son. By early morning, I wake up feeling somewhat rested. Still bleary-eyed, I head toward the kitchen. A hen perched on the back of a chair is staring at me. What on earth is she doing there? I grab the dish towel and wave it around to chase her away.

“Rose, Rose, stop! I came to talk to you.”

The night must have been harder than I thought. A talking hen, and what next… A chicken casserole with vegetables, I wouldn’t say no, but a casserole talking… Come on now!

“Rose, calm down! I’m Poupoule. I shared Catherine’s early childhood.”

No, no! A ghost? The ghost of an animal? What next?

“Rose, sit down, I have things to tell you.”

I take a deep breath and pour myself a coffee. I turn around; the room is empty.

Phew!

I head to the bathroom and slip into the tub. Beneath the lukewarm water, my muscles relax. I smile to myself — my imagination is playing tricks on me again. I get dressed, do my hair, check my appearance in the cheval mirror, and go out. I grab the newspapers from the console table and collapse into my armchair. Absentmindedly, I turn my head, scream, and drop my magazines. Comfortably settled in the other chair, Poupoule stares at me with her little round eyes.

“Rose, listen to me! Anyway, I can stay here ad aeternam.

— Fine, I’m listening.

— In 1961, Émile, Catherine’s father, bought five chicks from the seed merchant. We were tiny, yellow, and ordinary, but I was the one Catherine chose. She gently took me in her hands, lifted me to her lips, and gave me a kiss. Every day she came to see me, bringing me seeds and another kiss. I grew into a beautiful red hen with silky feathers, and I laid a lovely egg that the little girl carefully placed in the basket.

— But what does Catherine have to do with this story? It’s your life!

— Wait, wait, I’m getting there! It’s August. I’m not the only one who likes rituals. Every day, around two o’clock, when he comes home from work, Émile goes around checking on his brood. He kisses Marguerite, his wife, Didier in his mother’s arms, and Nadine and Michel in the living room.

But where is Cathy?

Émile searches the downstairs rooms, the cupboards, every place a four-year-old child might hide. Nobody! He goes upstairs and searches again. Nobody.

The front door? No, she’s too small and it’s too hard to open.

The courtyard door is open. He checks every inch of the fence surrounding the yard. Not a hole, nothing! He calls for his daughter. The neighbors, alerted by his calls, join the search.

Time passes. Discouraged, Émile sinks down. Nadine, his second daughter, snuggles into his arms.

‘Ati, Ati!’

At three years old, Nadine cannot pronounce Cathy.

‘Ati…’

She pushes away from her father and toddles toward the back of the garden. She crouches in front of the chicken coop and cries:

‘Ati, Ati!’

In a single leap, Émile jumps up and runs toward the coop. He opens the door and smiles.

His daughter is lying on the ground, fast asleep, with her Poupoule curled up tightly against her.

— I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. That’s a lovely memory you’ve just told me. What happened to you afterward?

— Émile put a beautiful yellow ring on my left leg. I understood why when I saw my companions disappear one after another. Chicks would arrive, grow up, and leave in turn. Several times Émile caught me, but whenever he saw my ring, he put me back down. Catherine recognized me — he didn’t.

— So you lived much longer than your roommates.

— Yes, I even went through two house moves. I died at eight years old — a venerable age for a hen.

— Thank you, Poupoule, and have a safe journey back to the paradise of animals.”

A violent storm has chased away the heat. A stream now runs down the middle of the street, and the trees shake themselves just like the dogs do. I can finally open my windows; the wind and rain have calmed down. I remain puzzled… what, or who, will come to visit me next time?

I’ve taken a dive into Catherine’s childhood, and that feels rather nice.