Sorgens lethed

Jeg er rundet af en stoicisme, der ikke tillader klynk over småting og fra et fjernt, mørkt sted, hvisker en stemme: “Hvor patetisk at føle sig forældreforladt som midaldrende, formående kvinde”. Men sorgen er aldersløs. Og kønsløs.  Sorgen tillader de sarte sider af os et lille åndehul i en præstationsorienteret verden. I modsætning til, hvad sorgen ofte fremstilles som; nemlig tung, klæbende, uafrystelig, kender jeg den sprøde, sarte, delikate side af sorgen. Den, der får huden til at synes så tynd, så tynd og kroppen så vægtløs, så der kun er sjælen og hjertet tilbage. Den, der smiler, mens tårerne løber stille ned ad kinderne.

Min far døde. Gammel, men ikke mæt af dage. Pludseligt. Uventet. Som Thomas Hardy’s “… such swift fleeing“.

Og selvom jeg er stor og voksen og helt i stand til at tage vare på mig selv, er jeg dog – nu og for altid – forældreløs.

The Going

Thomas Hardy

Why did you give no hint that night
That quickly after the morrow’s dawn,
And calmly, as if indifferent quite,
You would close your term here, up and be gone
Where I could not follow
With wing of swallow
To gain one glimpse of you ever anon!

Never to bid good-bye
Or lip me the softest call,
Or utter a wish for a word, while I
Saw morning harden upon the wall,
Unmoved, unknowing
That your great going
Had place that moment, and altered all.

Why do you make me leave the house
And think for a breath it is you I see
At the end of the alley of bending boughs
Where so often at dusk you used to be;
Till in darkening dankness
The yawning blankness
Of the perspective sickens me!

You were she who abode
By those red-veined rocks far West,
You were the swan-necked one who rode
Along the beetling Beeny Crest,
And, reining nigh me,
Would muse and eye me,
While Life unrolled us its very best.

Why, then, latterly did we not speak,
Did we not think of those days long dead,
And ere your vanishing strive to seek
That time’s renewal?  We might have said,
“In this bright spring weather
We’ll visit together
Those places that once we visited.”

Well, well!  All’s past amend,
Unchangeable.  It must go.
I seem but a dead man held on end
To sink down soon. . . .  O you could not know
That such swift fleeing
No soul foreseeing—
Not even I—would undo me so!