The story of my great-grandmother, Hansine Marie Hermansen (1859-1942). This story was long-listed in the British Writing Competition Multi-Story, Flash Fiction in 2012.
Life of the Fishermen’s Widow
There
are no ships in sight as I stand on the stony beach looking out at the living
water. Not like my family, all gone a long time ago now. The wind teases my
grey hair, what is left of it anyway. It used to be thick and wavy. Now I pull
it back in a small bun and when strands of hair come undone and play with the
wind, I don’t mind.
Hats
were never for me, I would rather wear a kerchief. My neighbor, Milly jokes
about that. “I would like to see the person who can put a hat on Hansine,” she
says. She’s a good neighbor, Milly. When the winter nights here in the north
are dark and gloomy, she lets me come and stay with her. I hear people say I am
afraid of the dark, but being worried and being afraid is not necessarily the
same thing.
“How
do you manage?” Milly asks. “You have lost both your husbands and all three of
your sons at sea.”
They
wonder why I always come down here to the beach on tempestuous days. I stand as
close as I can without getting wet. The blustery weather is cold enough. Here I
can be alone with my thoughts. Only the ocean moves towards the shore and the
occasional seagull looks for fish in the waves. There’s never anyone here to
respond to my voice, only new thoughts entering my wits, wondering and
grinding.
Questions
about my family often emerge when Milly is around. “It will help talking about
it,” she says and puts the kettle on. But I don’t speak about my children. They
were given me, they were taken away. Words won’t change that.
Sometimes
I will mention funny things Berner said. He was the love of my youth, the one
who chose me for life. Two and a half years was the time we were allotted.
Enough time to learn to love, but not enough to be satisfied. I gave birth to
our second child a few weeks after the sea claimed him.
Then
there was Karolius, who also chose me, a widow with two small children. I
learned to love again, to live again.
“Tell
me about your grandchildren,” Milly continues. She has not given up on me. My
thoughts go to my daughter, who married and settled in a town north of here.
Photographers enjoyed capturing her beauty, but the Spanish flu grasped her
life, along with her husband’s, leaving six children nine years and under. My
grandbabies were divided among families far away from me. There’s not much I
can tell Milly about them.
What
I would give to be able to do it over again, this life. I have spent enough
time pondering on the outcome of the years past. When I was in the middle of
things I did the best I could. Why is it that I think it would be different if
I had a new chance at life? Both my husbands would still be fishermen, all my
sons would follow in their fathers’ footsteps.
I
believe that when my turn on earth is over, I will look back thinking I spent
too much time worrying. Though I can state this as a fact, my whole being is
permeated with anxiety and concern.
I
wipe my hand across my wet cheeks, thinking it’s time to go back. The wind has
picked up, a storm is approaching. As always, I will stay out of the lamp light
when I return. On a night like this, I won’t engage in conversation.
Foto: Hansine Marie Hermansen
