In zero distrust, he opens the fifth door of the mastodonte closet of their mother’s room. The cow. It surprises it average, but nothing has moved. All his father’s ancient clothes are there, glued tight, “fabuloned” closely. He sees eight images by second, the 1970s, 1980s, 1990 too, a little, necessarily. His eye hooked quickly made a striped, orange and blue shirt. The smell of always, cold tobacco combo and vetiver cheap. The fabric parma with its psyche patterns in relief still, with more and more difficulty, the walls of the cupboard. Same atmosphere as before the major works and the rest. We almost hear the voices of life before. It’s too much, he closes the door.
This is the first time that their mother has left them the right not to dress in an identical way – but I mean, perfectly the same, to the socks and the pants. The very first time since their birth, almost thirteen years ago. Tomorrow is their birthday. This morning, she told them anything, emptying the machine, without taking the measure of the gravity of the ad: “Little guys, for Saturday, you dress as you want, both . “Shocked by this” one and the other “unpublished, they looked at themselves as they do, without needing to do it really, via this invisible channel just them.
the Father’s mausoleum
By dint of undergoing the gemellary of their mother who systematically makes her buy their clothes in double (pajamas, sweaters, t-shirts, coats, caps, same model, even color), they had finished By believing that they would die dressed as. His brother does not care, all sold that he is in the maternal chapel. But he is just waiting for that, that it stops. And this, since the summer of their 5 years and these holidays in Cadaqués, to have been lugged in the alleys of the village, both in the jacket of white and navy sailor, Pento in the hair, line on the side, to doubt Feet because of the hyperserred dali sneakers, feeling of being a fashion accessory in the face of each racing out that is ranging.
Her brother took their father’s mausoleum dressing room what she suggested, before leaving to read in the living room, this lick-cul. In turn now. He reopens the closet. The fabrics, cotton, silk, wool, flannel, linen, the different textures, gathered under his fingers. He knows. It will be the light orange and blue striped shirt, short sleeves. She reminds him of the hero with a wick and pimples of a film he liked, where the guy despite his acne still manages to hit a thirty -something. And then, it is that of the photo he likes, where his father has hair, a smile and a big mustache.
He tries it with costume pants, too long, but perhaps his mother knows how to hear the hems. The fabric refined by time, almost paper, is fresh. His mother enters. And the farm, for once. She places herself in front of him. She seems very small. She replaces the collar of the shirt that didn’t need it so much. To his left hand, his alliance shines more than usual, of a misty light which says too much. He looks in his eyes, he sees himself better than in the mirror of the closet door, praying that the stripes, tomorrow, make you forget the acne pimples which ravage his forehead.
