When the sun rises the shades of white change from cold to slightly warm. The curtains are old white sheets with plenty of lace at the top edge and the initials KK. I do not sleep after having slept too much in the evening, the whites are now ivories. My grandmother’s trousseau? my trousseu, of a shade of morning (a brief visit to marriage it was, but not a failed one). I am very happy, very sad. I hoped for a storm and I got thunder after thunder and they didn’t help one bit. I am frustrated by all the anger, too. I am excessively sensitive; I always react before I understand. My mind is slow, my emotions quick. When will I have the time to stop and understand something? Not that it’s possible to understand what happened in Norway.
It feels as if I’m experiencing love and happiness for the first time. Maybe I am. Maybe I am free now. Yet a feeling of guilt lingers in the background: I should not be happy at a moment like this. Of course it’s not true. My happiness does not make those who lost someone any less happy. My unhappiness does not make strangers any happier. Often I just try to bear the weight of the world on my shoulders. Always failing.
Somewhere far the thunder rumbles again.
When I was a child my other grandmother had cotton wool and dried rhodanthes between her windows. All we have there now is the black dirt the city breathes into our home. I should do something about it.