He would memorize syllables, their gaps, their links, the punctuations between them and repeat them softly to himself as he rested his eyes. Entire phrases of the same letters mixed in different arrangements with other phrases separated by gaps between them. The sequence of those phrases together would form larger arrangements that would then relate to even larger arrangements of phrases, which if read in a prescribed order would produce connections to other arrangements.
With a cold wash cloth on his eyes and temple, he would murmur one small phrase and always (except for one year) by magic other phrases and their other phrases would well up, cascade, bringing other phrases… and then disappear as the memories rushed in of bits of dialog, the angle of the light slanting low one afternoon and the dark blue-green of late summer, the ochre pebbles of the stream bank and how far we were from home and the blackness of the stream and my uncle saying, “Let me show you. Hold your own hand like a cup. Dip it, tilt it back and then pour into your mouth.” The water tasted like brass. now as I dip my brush into the ochre paint well, I remember that afternoon and him saying,
“easy.”
And returning for dinner late, the smell of soup, and cornichons on the table, the mustard jar open and my aunt saying, “where were you?” où étiez-vous?