At my grandmother’s house
leaves lie scattered on the table.
I write on the floor.
She watches me
fold the paper very tight
without saying a word.
The empty bottle
comes from the kitchen.
It smells of sugar.
“Be careful,”
my grandmother says softly.
I nod.
I slip the story inside.
She smiles slightly,
as if she already knows.
By the Vienne
she holds my hand
so I won’t slip.
“Go on now.”
Her voice moves ahead of me.
I throw it.
The bottle floats.
My grandmother laughs quietly,
like a child too.
I watch it drift away.
She places her hand
on my back.
I keep watching
until it disappears.
The river goes on.
Years later,
I still write like this:
she lets me do it.
If someone finds it,
they will know I was there
one day.
With Grandma.
— Ophelie Deslys —
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