her thoughts. She pulled the curtains aside and looked at the lawn. As she thought about death, she saw her own hand – it was no longer young and smooth, but dry and wrinkled. For a few moments, the sight terrified her. She raised her hand and examined it carefully, brought it close to her cheek. Of course it was warm and able, as always. So why these silly thoughts? Sometimes it seemed as though the moment cracked open and let in a dose of hard reality.
I don’t have much time left .
It was early morning. She heard a little thump out front, the sound of her local newspaper being dropped into her mailbox. The postman had already moved on to the next house. He rode a bicycle with a small trailer hitched to it, and with strength she was no longer capable of mustering, he pedalled up the hill in his red uniform. Out in the garden she turned her face towards the sky and felt the sunlight. It glows the same way it did when I was sixteen, she thought, just as rich and golden. Just as invigorating. The wind is mild and the grass is overwhelmingly green and lush. I could get on my knees and eat it, just like cows do. She headed to the mailbox and fetched her paper. On the first page she saw a picture of a man with his arms around a sheep, and she read the headline. THE MYTH OF THE NORWEGIAN SHEEP FARMER
She went inside and set the newspaper on the kitchen table. She would certainly read that article, because she had her opinions about sheep farmers. But first she wanted to brew coffee and butter a piece of bread. Everything had to be done just so, and at the right pace. Why should she hurry? After all, there was only one direction. Now I’m complaining too much, thought Gunilla Mørk, but God expects no more of a person than is given him. The food tasted good. The jam was made from berries grown in her garden, and she hadn’t ruined it with too much sugar.
She started reading about the sheep farmer.
The myth of the Norwegian sheep farmer and the love he feels towards his animals lives on, but it is overblown. The image of the devastated farmer kneeling by the body of one of his sheep following a bear attack is not about grief; rather, it’s about economic impact. When they want to get on the good side of public opinion, when they want to obtain larger subsidies from the state, they become first-rate actors.
This claim was made by a professor she had never heard of.
The man in the photograph, a man called Sverre Skarning, claimed that he loved all his sheep, even the black ones. She studied the farmer and the sheep. She tried to form an opinion, but didn’t know what to think. They probably are fond of their sheep, she thought. And she liked the photograph. A man and a sheep in close contact put her in quite a good mood. She flipped to the next page. In between she drank her coffee, which energised her, strong and hot as it was. I’ll get some things done today, she thought. Maybe I’ll stain the garden furniture; it’s got terribly dry during the summer. She concentrated her reading on the ongoing tragedies unfolding in the poorer parts of the world – cyclones, earthquakes, war and more war – then raised her head and looked out at the quiet garden, at the flowers and trees, and thought it marvellous that she of all people had been granted this peaceful spot on earth where nothing bad ever happened.
She came to the obituaries.
These she always read carefully, because sometimes she knew someone. She also made a note of the year of their birth, recognising that her own was drawing near with alarming haste; those who’d now used up their allotted time had been born around 1930. Gunilla, she thought, you’ve got to stop. You’re sitting here in the kitchen, and you are alive and well. Sunlight falls through the window, the coffee is strong. At that very moment she gasped in shock, staring directly at her own name. Gunilla Mørk, she read, was dead; she had died in her sleep. She let go of the newspaper and put a
I don’t have much time left .
It was early morning. She heard a little thump out front, the sound of her local newspaper being dropped into her mailbox. The postman had already moved on to the next house. He rode a bicycle with a small trailer hitched to it, and with strength she was no longer capable of mustering, he pedalled up the hill in his red uniform. Out in the garden she turned her face towards the sky and felt the sunlight. It glows the same way it did when I was sixteen, she thought, just as rich and golden. Just as invigorating. The wind is mild and the grass is overwhelmingly green and lush. I could get on my knees and eat it, just like cows do. She headed to the mailbox and fetched her paper. On the first page she saw a picture of a man with his arms around a sheep, and she read the headline. THE MYTH OF THE NORWEGIAN SHEEP FARMER
She went inside and set the newspaper on the kitchen table. She would certainly read that article, because she had her opinions about sheep farmers. But first she wanted to brew coffee and butter a piece of bread. Everything had to be done just so, and at the right pace. Why should she hurry? After all, there was only one direction. Now I’m complaining too much, thought Gunilla Mørk, but God expects no more of a person than is given him. The food tasted good. The jam was made from berries grown in her garden, and she hadn’t ruined it with too much sugar.
She started reading about the sheep farmer.
The myth of the Norwegian sheep farmer and the love he feels towards his animals lives on, but it is overblown. The image of the devastated farmer kneeling by the body of one of his sheep following a bear attack is not about grief; rather, it’s about economic impact. When they want to get on the good side of public opinion, when they want to obtain larger subsidies from the state, they become first-rate actors.
This claim was made by a professor she had never heard of.
The man in the photograph, a man called Sverre Skarning, claimed that he loved all his sheep, even the black ones. She studied the farmer and the sheep. She tried to form an opinion, but didn’t know what to think. They probably are fond of their sheep, she thought. And she liked the photograph. A man and a sheep in close contact put her in quite a good mood. She flipped to the next page. In between she drank her coffee, which energised her, strong and hot as it was. I’ll get some things done today, she thought. Maybe I’ll stain the garden furniture; it’s got terribly dry during the summer. She concentrated her reading on the ongoing tragedies unfolding in the poorer parts of the world – cyclones, earthquakes, war and more war – then raised her head and looked out at the quiet garden, at the flowers and trees, and thought it marvellous that she of all people had been granted this peaceful spot on earth where nothing bad ever happened.
She came to the obituaries.
These she always read carefully, because sometimes she knew someone. She also made a note of the year of their birth, recognising that her own was drawing near with alarming haste; those who’d now used up their allotted time had been born around 1930. Gunilla, she thought, you’ve got to stop. You’re sitting here in the kitchen, and you are alive and well. Sunlight falls through the window, the coffee is strong. At that very moment she gasped in shock, staring directly at her own name. Gunilla Mørk, she read, was dead; she had died in her sleep. She let go of the newspaper and put a
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