Thursday, October 23, 2008
One hundred days and one
On the hundrered day since Dad died, a storm came in from the ocean. It whipped the waves into 20-foot walls, hurled itself against the bare rocks of Klubba and tore at the small wood that shelters the cemetery from the sea.
The trees did not yield, of course, they have seen worse before. But some of the weather made it through their creaking guard. Wild gusts raced between the rows of stones, mussing up the heather, tugging at the lanterns. The deer hid between the pine trees, giving up all hopes of fresh roses to chew. The birds crept close to the tree trunks and let the wind speak for them.
All this I imagine, because though I know there was a storm, I was not there to feel it.
In Indonesia, the friends and family of lost ones are not done with their communal grieving after the funeral. They gather again after one week, after a hundred days and after one year.
I could not come to Kristiansund yesterday, but it still seems right to share.