WRITER

My third passion. I write mostly movie scripts (for my own movies), but once in a while something different. Here below you can find a text I wrote in memory of my grandfather, which I often reread when I begin to write for a new project.

@Breedbeeldfilmfestival Antwerp, talking about the writing process of Le Temps Qui Reste

A last goodbye

Foot. Another foot. A whole bunch of feet walking over the wooden plank that connects the earth and its living people with the water. 

Talking. A lot of it. About how relieved he must have been. Happy talking. Sad talking. Babbling. Yes, rather babbling and chattering, maybe even gossiping, which finds it origine in the sharp voices of a bunch of aunts who finds themselves in a range from 70 to 90 years old and who all look the same to me. 

The boat starts sailing up the river. Or down. He would have known that. I don’t. Up and down. Looking from his bench. ‘His’ bench and ‘his’ stairs that led him towards it. 

Just sitting there, watching. People, the water, people on the water, people of the water. Sun, clouds. In his opinion mostly clouds, but I know better. 

Suddenly, silence. Again all these feet. And hands with roses in it. A lot of them. Hands and roses. Walking to the deck and gathering. But now without the sharp voices. Silence. 

A large boat horn blows. Everyone quiet. At last. At least. He is. 

Faces. A lot of them. Not all of them.
Looking at that one bench. In front of his stairs.
And still this silence.
Faces with tears. My face connecting to these tears and producing them. Shocking shoulders, and in the life-making muscle located just under my left breast I feel. 

I just. Feel. 

Roses start falling down onto the water and suddenly I feel lost. I feel pain. And relieve. And empathy. And happiness and love and memories and again pain. The one that will become softer after a while. Comforting arms around me try to take that away. 

Roses are floating on the water. 

I see the red colored roses, and although the engine starts again together with the sharp voices, my face does not want to turn away. I can’t. 

Maybe later.

The roses float away, finding each other in their deepest veines. One by one.

A last goodbye. 

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