I have been thinking about writing this post for some time now. And it’s a hard one.
My grandmother (my father’s mother) past away in the middle of August, and it left me feeling paralysed. I thought I was prepared. I mean she was over 90 years old and had been getting smaller and smaller this last couple of months, but it hit me hard. Now everyone from that generation in my life is gone. My grandmother was the last one.
I am glad that it went pretty quick in the end and that now she’s in peace. But I needed to go to her house to really get it. She is gone.
The funeral was on Friday the 7th September and I don’t know if I am going to post this. I am writing this for me. To get it out. To remember her.
My grandmother was a strong woman. She moved with my grandfather from Sweden to Norway right after the second world war. To an Oslo that had been occupied by Germany. The war was present, maybe not so much as other parts of Europe, but it was there. Norway was poor. My grandmother didn’t speak Norwegian when she moved. But she quickly learned. Grandfather used to speak highly of how good she got. After a while, people thought she was born in Norway and not Sweden because she talked fluent Norwegian. She didn’t even have an accent.
And they had it tight with money when my father grew up, but she always made it work.
And when I grew up she taught me about manners and etiquette. But also about going after what you want in life. To let yourself dream big and think outside the box. Both her and my grandfather was really kin on my writing. And always encourage me to continue writing.
I miss her.. really much.