You put on your favorite jeans and the t-shirt you brought back from your end-of-primary school trip to Rome. As if to make a connection between the two establishments.
You were stressed and curious at the same time.
You had us adjust the straps of your too-new Eastpack bag that took the place of your "little" satchel.
You were beautiful my daughter.
1m 49 and a strong character. Teenage questions already in your head.
Thursday morning you were going back to college.
We left by metro all three. We stayed 20 minutes waiting, with all the other new schoolchildren and their parents, in front of the gates to be able to enter. You know, with his Vigipirate plan stories, we no longer laugh with security measures.
They finally gave your name and they gave me a tag.
We took a few more or less determined steps.
We were again welcomed and told "for the girl it's opposite, for you a welcome breakfast is waiting for you on the right".
We broke up in seconds.
You pursued the path alone, courageous. You sat down in the great hall. I wanted to catch your eye. Yours was looking for your only girlfriend from your elementary school.
We stood watching you. You, our baby (born the day before yesterday, however), now in college.
We skipped the coffee.
And then she sank. This little tear. The one that didn't come out when you entered kindergarten or when you entered primary school.
Thursday morning you entered college.
And I'm proud of you.
