On grief

“During the time closest to her death, he thought every morning when he woke: I shall live this day without her. Tomorrow I shall wake and live through the entire day and do without her. The same I shall do the day after tomorrow. That is how it shall be for all my days I have left. During all the time that is left to me in this world, I shall be without her. This was every morning’s reminder. (…)

And the days without Kristina accumulated into weeks, months, and years. He could already say: It was last year I lost my wife. Soon he would say: It was the year before last year I lost my wife…One day it would be: It was that year when I lost my wife…it was long, long ago…And then the bereavement soon would end when his own life would be finalized (…)

In the evening, he would stand on the path between the shieling and the dwelling house, as if he was waiting for her. Here she should come walking with her milk cans, one can in each hand, and he would help her carry if he was close by: Can I take one, Kristina? She replied: That is nice of you, Karl Oskar. But now she did not come on the path where she used to go and he was left standing disheartened. Did he not know it? Would he never be reconciled with it? He had no more cans to carry for Kristina. He had no wife. He had raised a cross over her at the graveyard.

On tepid summer evenings, he would go outside of the house and (…) then it happened that he, surprised, listened and looked in through the open windows. At this evening time, he used to hear Kristina’s sewing machine from inside. It buzzed and rumbled so that you could hear it from afar. But now? No noise from the flywheel, no sound from the pedal under her feet. Tonight her sewing machine was completely silent. (…)

And Karl Oskar stood always likewise crestfallen when he was forced back from the past and into his present moment: Kristina’s sewing machine was put away in a corner and made no sound and in the loom her shuttle would never no again.”

(Vilhelm Moberg, The Last Letter Home/Sista brevet till Sverige, 1959)

2 thoughts on “On grief

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