Seven in the evening. Mom gives the signal: "Nathaël, it's time! People are already at the church." Under the dark blue sky, lit only by snowflakes falling almost horizontally, our two bundled-up bodies climb into the icy car. She takes the wheel, rubbing her hands together. I sit in the back seat, breaking tradition: we have a special guest tonight.
The car moves a few meters to the house next door. Leaving the engine running, Mom steps outside again to help Memé Marie-Louise to the door. It's so dark I can barely make out their murmuring silhouettes. The car's overhead light illuminates a massive pile of fur that settles into the passenger seat. Memé has pulled out her fur coat, her brightest jewelry, and her rarest perfume—the one reserved for grand occasions. She smiles at me as Mom hurries back to the driver's seat.
The polite silence between the two of us in the trembling car, the snow making my grandmother's coat look like a polar bear's fur—all of it feels infinitely significant. It's a moment that will stay with me long after, a memory encapsulating Memé as the pinnacle of elegance and kindness. During the very short drive to the church, I quietly observe the beauty of the night wrapping around the three of us.
The parking lot at the church is packed. Volunteers guide cars into the few remaining spaces. There's a kind of frenzy in the air: people rushing to catch the Christmas carols before the service and, most importantly, to secure "a good spot" to see everything up front. We shiver from the car to the church door, held open by a man bracing against the whistling wind. Everyone removes their gloves, hands still frozen, to make the sign of the cross with holy water and pick up a missal. The lights reflect in a thousand sparkles on my snowflake-covered glasses.
The Christmas Eve mass at eight o'clock has always been a tradition for my mom and me. Year after year, we find ourselves there to reflect on the year that has passed and the one to come. It's not so much religious devotion that brings me—I rarely go to church anymore, a fact my mom occasionally laments—but the warmth of the ritual, and, since her passing, a tribute to my grandmother. Memé is the person I most associate with the traditions that move me: she was our keeper of memories, the one who believed most in pausing the rush of daily life to celebrate, even for just one night, the simple fact of being alive.
This year, once the car drives away with just my mom and me inside, it will be her voice—Memé's—that sings in the wind, a reminder of the years gone by.
