You are the same house, the same door. You are probably the same birch trees, all grown up. But you surround a meadow now, not a neatly cut lawn. In some places you can still hear the gravel creak beneeth the grass where we used to play mini golf. But you trees, you house and door with peeling paint, you saw her here. You saw me too. Maybe I look older now and these memories will die with me, but I remember you.
During two weeks my mom and I will follow in my grandmother’s footsteps as we walk from the village where she was born, to the village where she died. Along the way, in this landscape of hers, I will collect fragments that remind me of her and document it here. This is day 0, we are now in Stugun where she was born. Time to sleep, tomorrow we start walking.
The way down to the river, overgrown by flowers.
Nobody lives here now, but someone cared enough to fix the roof.
One of these layers must have been painted by her.
Peeking through the key hole.
The first fragment collected.