We spoke about life, my Mormor and I. I opened the window to my soul for her to see. She saw the little girl sitting alone in a corner, and the woman dancing to Lady Gaga in the moonlight. She saw my passions, fears, and joy. When I was frustrated about the state of the world, she would tell me, ‘Cain and Abel, that is the world in a nutshell’. And when I postponed decisions to the point of no return, she’d say, ‘no decision is also a decision’, with her sometimes remarkably stern voice. She saw me.
She was a master weaver, seamstress, and knitter, and she was my tutor. Many visits were spent with her patiently showing me all the techniques, tips, and tricks. It’s beautiful to think that every stitch I knit or sew is an extension of my Mormor’s story – still connected by thin threads. She left behind boxes and boxes of yarns, weft, and threads. I see her shaky cursive handwriting on the labels and look at it all, not knowing what would be a worthy enough project. Then I hear her stern voice: ‘no decision …’
She was assiduous in her take on life, independent, and incredibly stubborn. Life wasn’t fair to her, but she dealt with it and survived everything it threw at her with dignity and grace. Then, one day, she just woke up unwell and died. Today would have been her 98th birthday, and although I miss her deeply, I feel so grateful to have had her in my life well into my 30s. To a life well lived – l’chaim!