One day, my grandmother was no longer able to walk. That was the day she died. Physically, she continued to live a little longer, but her new knees, which had surgically replaced the old ones, were worn out and no longer able to carry her body. The remaining strength in her muscles wasted away from the days spent lying in bed. Her digestive system began to fail. Her heartbeat slowed down and her pulse became uneven. Her lungs took in less and less oxygen. Towards the end, she was left gasping for air. In those days I had two daughters at home. The youngest, Solveig, was thirteen months old. As her great-grandmother slowly shrank into a fetal position, Solveig felt it was high time she learned how to walk. Arms raised above her head and hands clasped around my fingers, she managed to totter across the living- room floor. Each time she let go and attempted a few steps on her own, she would discover the difference between what’s up and what’s down, what’s high and what’s low. When she stumbled and smacked her forehead on the edge of the living-room table, she learned that some things are hard and others soft. [ 3 ]
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16/10/18 1:50 PM