Walking alone the river
I remember a picture I saw of my grandmother from when she was young. She had wide linnen trousers, a brick-coloured shirt and was sitting on the back of a big brown horse. Her hair looked wild in a stylish way and her face was a big smile. I remember thinking that this was who she was before I knew her, before she moved to the city, before she was mortal. Safe and wild she took on the world. How could she end up with a broken mind in a lonely place so far away from us?
But in some ways she was never alone at the end. In her mind, where time and logic no longer mattered, she was visited by long dead relatives. Her uncles kept her up at night, dancing on the second floor, her mother came to stay some days and all the places and friends she loved the most was just around the corner.
Where she was born and where the picture with the horse was taken. There used to be a full ally of birch trees all the way up.
Fragment 2: birch bark from the new trees by her old house.
Fragment 3: soil from her parents grave.