Work book / Grief work
Glücksbringer
I pick up a piece of metal in the backyard. It has been there for a long time. It is rusty brown pressed down between the stones. It is round with a hole in the middle with grooves from the outer edges towards the center. The underside is hollow and filled with wet soil. I put it in my bag.
I remind myself to bring a plastic bag to collect your things in, now my bag will get dirty again. Outside the kiosk I find a half-smoked cigarette. You would probably have picked it up and smoked it too, even though you were so young. The cigarette butt stinks in the bag. The smell is disgusting and makes me sick, but I have to be consistent or the picture won’t come out right.
When you were little, you had pockets full of “Glücksbringer” that you found. You said it in Swiss German which was your first language. In English it would be it would be translated as lucky charms. There were acorns, chestnuts, bottle caps, candy wrappers, candy bags and other items. You collected them first in your pockets and then in shoeboxes in your room.
As I walk the streets of Gothenburg, a city you never got to visit, I know exactly what you would have bent down to pick up. I do it for you now because you can’t do it yourself anymore.
I book the photo studio. At the paper store, I buy a large sheet of paper in a strangely beautiful pink color. Pink was your favorite color. I never liked the color pink before but now I do.
I put the sheet on the floor and place your things on the paper. There are four bird feathers, three coins, six horse chestnuts, an acorn, a piece of brass pipe, a small black lighter, a small empty bottle of Jägermeister, a broken electric cigarette, a blue glass ball, four steel cables, a nitrous oxide cartridge, a heart-shaped golden earring, a wooden popsicle stick, an aluminum beer opener, four nuts, a silver bell, a key, a couple of plastic flower petals from the outdoor cafe where I used to sit when I was new in town, three pieces of a pearl plate, a silver button, a golden safety pin, and the half-smoked cigarette.
I haven’t worked in a photo studio for a very long time and I’ve never been really good at it. I have to struggle with the camera, the tripod, the lamp and the reflective screen before I find the angle to get the picture right.
Anyone who knew you will see at once that the picture is a collaboration between you and me.
Göteborg
When I first come to Gothenburg, I write to all religious communities in the city. I want to get in touch with other parents who have lost their children to economic violence. Children who have died because adults want to make money. All the communities deny that they know of any family that has lost their child in a similar way as I have done. In the end I just keep the answer from the mosque. Faraj writes:
…”I would like to start by expressing my condolences. The grief that no one can feel except a mother who has lost her son. Not only is it difficult to lose a child by “natural means”. No child should have to die in this way. I hope with all my heart that the perpetrator will be punished in this life and in the next…”
Amen, I say quietly to myself.
I listen to the radio documentary Tramadoltjejerna. The documentary tells the story of two young girls who died a few days apart here in Gothenburg. One of them was buried in the chapel on Hisingen less than a year ago. They have forget them both already.
In the second part of the documentary, a mother talks about her daughter. The time she saw the Volvo drive up to the apartment gate. She already knew when she saw the Volvo, before the priest got out. They always come in a Volvo, she says. At first I think it’s the girls younger sister talking. Her voice is bright as a child’s. That’s how light my voice was before the darkness began. When telemarketers called our home and I replied that we weren’t interested, the salesperson asked if they could speak to my parents. It’s women like me, with bright and playful voices who are unable to protect our children?
I write to the grief group for parents who have lost their children. Here in Gothenburg they divide the mourners by gender. I find it’s strange. We don’t grieve primarily with our genitals. I tell them about your death and my experiences of grief groups. That your death scare the other parents. That I am forced into the position of justifying you and my parenting. That parents affected by our destiny stop attending these groups. I never get a reply to my email. I’m thinking of writing an email from a different address and pretend to be queer and ask which group I should attend.
Andrej shows me how to use the more advanced lighting system in the studio. He lights up the entire background evenly with two lamps and a large soft box. On the computer screen it looks perfect. I print the image. It’s nice that the background is so bright, every single object is visible. But it doesn’t work as an image, not as our image. We are interested in reality, you and I, and reality is not always evenly illuminated. It vignettes and the shadows are sometimes harsh.
All my Tinder dates
This is the second time I’ve been here at my Tinder dates’ house. The first time I was here, I had to promise them that I would say, when I entered, that I think their apartment is nice. They have renovated it themselves and are very proud of it. How nice you have it! I said when I came in.
They told me how good they are at cooking and now they want to invite me to dinner. They’ve bought crayfish, sourdough bread and a bottle of Riesling. Shopping is not cooking, I think to myself. I sit down at the kitchen island on one of the high stools. They proudly unpack the food and converse. I can’t believe you’ve never had sea crayfish before! “River crayfish only tastes of mud,” they say. Here in Gothenburg we only eat sea crayfish. The crayfish are difficult to eat. I only eat two but drink a lot of the wine. My grandmother, your great grandmother loved Riesling wines. I drink in her honor and because I like to get drunk.
My Tinder dates have their kids on even or odd weeks. They love their children above all else. They write that in their profiles. When they don’t have their kids, they can meet me. In my profile, I write that I have children and that I want more children. I don’t write anything about weeks because you are always with me. Sometimes my Tinder dates comment on it. Aren’t you too old to have children, they ask. Yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want more children. What you want and what is possible are two completely different things, I say to clarify. We don’t mean that you look old. We don’t mean that at all. We’ve never met such a fresh looking fifty-year-old. Fifty-two, I say. I don’t tell them it’s because you live in me and therefore I can’t age. They say they never loved their ex-wives. They were only with them because their wives were so damn pretty. I know that’s not true. I’ve been on their Facebook and I’ve seen that their exes are not very good looking.
How old are your kids, they ask. I never know which answer to take. Whatever answer I choose, it will transform me. My son is already at the next level, I choose this time. It was one of your friends who coined that expression about you. A perfectly logical explanation from young people who game a lot. They look quizzical. I say you would have been nineteen today. How are you, they ask. Death is not an end, I answer. We are not religious, they say. There is so much we do not know, I say to smooth over.
When we wake up the next morning and we lie looking at each other in bed, I ask why they run so much. They all run marathons. We run to feel good about ourselves, they reply. What do you do to feel good about yourself, they ask. I have no need to feel good about myself, I answer snobbishly. Let’s have breakfast and go to the sea, they suggest. I have to work, I say and get out of bed. The bed is full of crumbs. Someone has been lying there with dirty feet before me. I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I want to brush my hair too, but they don’t have a hairbrush because they are all bald. At the sink is a toothbrush from someone they see more often than me. Someone who is happier. I would never leave my toothbrush with someone who has dirty sheets. I steal the toothbrush from the happy woman. Before I get on the bus, I throw the toothbrush in the trash can.