A letter to grandma

by Eerika etc.

We used to spend time in Siuntio with you and grandpa. The house was surrounded by huge pine trees that on the other side increased into a forest. It felt like the house had more windows than wooden walls. And I guess I wasn’t the only one feeling that way since we would constantly find unconscious birds lying on the ground by both sides of the house. They failed to perceive the space in between the windows; for them, and for us, the house was just an extension of the forest. So whenever I think about you, I can’t help thinking about trees too. Today I was asked whether I believed in life after death. I answered: ”Not in the body but in minds and in memories”. That is why I’m writing to you. I write because without you there would be no trees; no roots to our brilliant minds or painful memories.

The body

”When mummi was young, she was a beauty”, mom used to say. I thought about that while you sat in the living room and extended your arms gracefully; ”Look, I used to be a dancer too, you see.” Then you’d try to lift up your leg and we would all laugh to your 80 years’ stiffness. But still your arms and fingers and face were elegant and well considered in their movements. Now I know just how rare that kind of beauty is. I wish you could’ve seen it too. But instead you were scared and blinded by vanity. You just hated the body that was getting old on you.

Brilliant minds

During summer in Siuntio the days were warm and lazy. I felt safe there. During afternoons grandpa would nap for a few hours, my sister would too. But you and me, when it came to napping we were the same, restless. So while the rest was asleep we would sit outside in the wooden swing by the entrance, talking. The bees buzzed around us and the air was warm and smelled like pine trees. We were breaking the silence by getting to know each other. Even though I have no clue of what we talked about during those sleepy afternoon hours I do remember the realness of those conversations. Even though I was only five years old I felt heard. Those afternoons, for the first time, I felt the pleasure of thinking. You made me feel intelligent. After, the rest would wake up from napping. Then they had tea, and we had a secret.

Painful memories

I remember waiting outside your room at the hospital, hearing your voice command through the door; ”Don’t you come in yet! I am not decent.” Only weeks, maybe even days later you died with no hair, your body full of cancer but with an intact layer of makeup on your face. Mom hated you for that. Between you two there were years of anger and misunderstanding, and us kids, we were the bridge that went through to both sides. The silence in between felt violent and confusing. The trees outside the hospital window were tall and green, and I wish I would’ve told you; ”Mummi, you are beautiful.”

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About the author

“So Eerika, what is the meaning of life?” my mom used to ask me when I was a kid. And frankly, still no clue. Today I wonder and I write, and tomorrow I’ll do the same.