THE SOUL OF THE BOUTIQUE

Marguerite 

About Marguerite

 

My shop bears the gentle name Marguerite, echo of a woman small in stature, immense in heart. My grandmother taught me to love what does not shine, the silences that speak, the gestures that remain.

She lived through the war. The farm protected her family as best it could, but she knew hardship. Yet Marguerite never let bitterness take root. She walked on, with a quiet dignity that never bent.

She moved through the seasons like one walks through morning dew: courage at her fingertips, humility in her soles. Her hands sank into the soil, and the aches buried in her bones told that story for years. Her gaze followed faith like a beam of light.

Each Sunday, she went to mass, exquisitely elegant in her simplicity. Her shawl neatly folded, her jewelry discreet, she walked as one honors a ritual, with the grace of those who understand silence. She spoke to me of old customs, like passing down a song whose words warm the soul.

 

 

The House, an Inventory of Dreams

 

As a child, I ran quickly between the two churches to reach my grandmother as soon as possible. The bell towers rang for communions, baptisms, funerals… and the door of her house always remained open, ready to welcome family, friends, the postman, the farmer bringing milk. It was Marguerite’s house, where every corner whispered a memory.

Nights under the eiderdown were expeditions. Beneath the bed, a secret world slept: dried linden flowers, dog-eared books, forgotten healing plants, a voiceless violin, an old doll with missing arms… an inventory of dreams. In her bedroom, amidst the gentle disarray of treasures — timidly sparkling jewels, elegant hats — the scent of coffee drifted like a whisper. My grandfather shaved slowly, facing the barber’s mirror, and the grandfather clock beat the heart of happy days.

Wednesdays were sacred. The Aronde carried the whole family to homes full of life, or conversely, to absolute calm. We listened with reverence to the stories of life.

Whispers of Memory – Selected Fragments

  • “She taught me to love what doesn’t shine, the silences that speak, the gestures that remain.”

  • “She moved through the seasons like one walks through morning dew: courage at her fingertips, humility in her soles.”

  • “Each Sunday, she went to mass, exquisitely elegant in her simplicity.”

  • “The bell towers rang for communions, and I headed toward the house with its door always open.”

  • “Under the bed, a secret world: dried linden flowers, dog-eared books, forgotten healing plants, a voiceless violin.”

  • “The fabric hummed beneath the needles… I listened to silence embroider its secrets.”

  • “In every detail, there’s a breath of her: her light, her modesty, her tenderness.”