A shared day

The 27th of October has since 1983 always been my sister’s birthday, but as of last year, it’s also the date of when our godfather died. I can’t think of a better photograph to embody this new duality, which I took at some point in the 90’s. My sister is watching TV in the his front room, while he stands in the kitchen, holding a lightbulb delicately in his hand. They’re together, yet apart, which I guess is a bit like how we live on with our loved ones who are no longer with us.

My godfather was a keen amateur photographer, with a great selection of cameras and lenses that he gave me while he was still alive, and I remember that on this particular roll of film I was trying out my newly gifted 17mm lens. I had never shot with a lens as wide before or afterwards, but if I remember correctly there’s not one dud on that whole roll. The wider perspective gave me new eyes and everything looked different, better.

I’ve been watching the calendar creep closer to this first anniversary with a bit of trepidation, but dipping into Thich Nhat Hanh’s “How to live when a loved one dies” yesterday really helped me feel less sad. Thanks for having been such a great part of my life dear Guffar*; I hope you can feel all of my love and gratitude somehow ❤️

* my incorrect pronunciation of gudfar (godfather in Swedish) when I was a kid

A Sunday morning walk in Stockholm

We stayed in the Kungsholmen neighbourhood, and one morning me and mum went out for a walk along Norr Mälarstrand, in the sun, which I think was only out twice the whole time we were there. I spotted this lady resting in her boat, and had to get closer.

Oh wow, she really had it worked out. An old record player playing I can’t remember what, coffee, not just in a thermos but with an actual cup, and is that a toaster I see below it? Impressive.

Ahh, just looking at these pictures is a sight for my sore eyes. I’m so over this winter; it’s been incredibly long, cold and weird, but spring will come one day, and hopefully the sun too.

A dog on a bench is always funny.

And a dead rat maybe less so. We couldn’t see that it had been injured or killed, so maybe it just died of old age, a bit too publicly.

Concertina building.

We made sure we captured the autumn colours.

Some people really know how to make the best of Sundays, don’t they? I need to master that.

I saw a couple of people swim, and as usual I hadn’t packed my bathing suit. When will I learn?! My friend M (my Swedish cold water swimming buddy) moved back to Stockholm last summer, and has kept up with it. It doesn’t seem like it’s as popular there as it is here, but maybe that’s to do with it being a lot colder there in winter. She’s sent me beautiful footage and pictures from her new swimming spot, and in one of the pictures she’s hacked herself a hole in the ice, by the ladder going into the water. She’s got a massive smile on her face and there’s just enough space for her to stay holding on to the ladder, with solid ice all around her. If that’s not a Viking I don’t know what is.

A little summation of sorts

The 12 or so days that I spent in Stockholm for my godfather’s funeral and the subsequent logistics that had to be organised post-funeral, were actually rather good. My sister A flew in from LA, my mum from the south of France and me from London, all of us landing within an hour of each other. I remember seeing the moon while I queued at passport control; it was unbelievably huge and the sky a perfect gradient of colours, and it felt like Lasse had somehow commandeered the sky for it to be that beautiful at that very moment. Like a sign saying “Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.”. And you know, it really did. We experienced what felt like being in flow for the whole time we were there. Everything did just seem to work out. It was both little and big things that happened that made what could’ve been a really hard time relatively smooth. The car that my sis had rented wasn’t available, so we got an upgrade instead. Mum’s best friend, who was away for the time we were there, offered us her flat for us to stay in (what timing!), and there was a parking spot just outside the apartment block when we arrived (and almost every time we came back from somewhere). Or like texting my cousin at 7am the same morning as the funeral (I’d forgotten to let her know in the midst of it all what had happened - she’d grown up knowing him too), sending the details, in case she could make it. She could, as her office was only a 20 min drive away. Or how quickly I found a lawyer to deal with the will, and how she made everything that felt overwhelming a much easier thing to go through. Or how, after dinner at my other cousin’s place on the opposite side of town, the only local bus you could take, went all the way to the bus stop right by the flat we were staying in. Or how, when out on a walk with my mum, we bumped into the son-in-law of her friend who’s flat we were staying in, which resulted in us being invited over for lovely dinner with her friend’s daughter and grandchildren. We didn’t force anything, and just simply let each day take its own shape, and let ourselves be guided by what had to be done, keeping an open mind to whatever arose. We kept saying that Lasse was somehow giving us a helping hand, making it all easier, when it could’ve been the worst of times.

I hadn’t really cried until we went round to Lasse’s flat to try and make a start on tidying things up a bit. When we entered the scent of the it was exactly the same as when he lived there, and that’s when it really hit me. He was never coming back.

We found his jacket that he used to wear all the time, still holding the shape of his body within, even though he hadn’t worn it for years. As much as we hoped that it would fit one of us, it was simply too big. My dad has it now, as a memento.

On the day we saw him, while we were talking, it came up that he was asked if there was something he really fancied having, as a treat, just days before he died. He asked for an ice cream sandwich. So after our hour with him was up, we thought we’d buy some and give him a farewell toast in Kungsträdgården, the park in which we had spent endless hours with him when we all were younger. Here we are saying “Skål Lasse!” as we did so, although my sister H had to forgo the dairy with a hot drink instead. It felt right to do something so funny/eccentric, as it was so like him. I think I’ll go and do the same every time I go back to Stockholm. A little personal hello and a sweet moment of remembrance.

We also laughed when we realised that the day we’d gone to see him was Halloween. He would’ve loved to have known that.

I think it’s quite common that at the time when someone dies, you look for signs or imbue meaning in things, to feel that that person is still with you. When we arrived at the cemetery for the funeral there were two moose in the field next door, munching away, without a care in the world. I have NEVER seen wild moose in my life. What were the odds of seeing them just then and there? Surely this was the work of Lasse again?!

The burial itself was slightly surreal. We women had to stay behind for the whole ceremony as the imam and the men present said the funeral prayers. My dad had organised it all through his local mosque, and had also bussed in friends from around Stockholm for a proper send off. I thought it wonderful that my white Swedish godfather’s funeral was so multi-cultural, which really reflected on him and his life. He travelled extensively in Africa and Asia in the 60’s, so it made sense that this was how he was laid to rest.

As a result of the funeral I got to see and properly hang out with my mum, who I hadn't seen since 2019. No offence to my husband or son, but to just be a daughter/sister this time, and have time on my own with my family felt so special. Also, the last day, before the three of us who live elsewhere left, we realised that it was Lasse’s birthday. We picked up dad on the way and drove out to Lasse’s grave to sing him Happy Birthday, and that evening we went out for dinner, just me, mum, dad and my sister A. We realised that it was the first time we’d all sat down together for a meal, just the four of us, since my parents divorce in 1988. See? Another little helpful nudge 😉

I’ll never forget those two weeks, which in despite of everything, felt like a gift. In fact I know it was. Tack Guffar.

Rest in peace L-G D

Ok, here goes. I don’t really know how to write this, so I’ll just have to see how it turns out as I type. I’ve been avoiding it to be honest, as the thought of writing this post has made me sad for weeks, but I feel ready now. At the end of October my beloved godfather - my third parent - died. He had been ill for a very long time, and it was expected, so it wasn’t a bolt out of the blue. I’d managed to get to the ripe old age of 47 without anyone dying on me, so when it became obvious that the most likely person to do so would be him, rather than run away from the fact, I tried to prepare myself as much as I could. I read books about what happens physically to our body as we die, how it is to work in a hospice, and Thich Nhat Hanh’s teachings on death. I trained myself for three years to understand and accept the inevitable. I think we in the West have become too good at refusing to accept death as a fact of life, and maybe even think that we’ll all cheat it somehow? David Hockney’s line “The cause of death is birth” rang true, as did the Buddhist concept of impermanence. It made the phone call I got from one of my sisters telling me that my godfather had finally died much easier. In fact, I felt very calm about it. It helped that he had a good death; he died in his sleep, with one of my sisters in the room with him. He was not in pain, and he was not on his own. It felt like a fair trade-off for the past three years, which had been incredibly tough and painful for him - and us. This wonderfully loving and eccentric man, my dad’s best friend, had no immediate family of his own, but through my dad he got one, a large Somali/Filipino mash up of a family. He lived in the apartment upstairs from us, and his door was always open, and for the 17 years I lived in Sweden it was a great comfort to know that he was always just one flight of stairs away, his casa my casa. He was the one who gave me my first camera when I was 10, which turned out to be the most wonderful gift anyone could have given me. As my friend Z wrote to me on the day he died: “ RIP dear Lasse. And thank you for introducing the camera to little Fatima. You will live on in each picture she takes.” I couldn’t agree more.

Within 48 hrs of receiving the news I flew to Stockholm, as he had stipulated that he wanted a muslim funeral (which happens within just a few days after death), a nod to my dad perhaps (or a hedging of bets, in case there’s an afterlife?), so speed was of the essence. One of my sisters, who had been his carer for the past five years, had arranged that we could see him one final time before the funeral, and it felt completely natural that we should do so. I’d never seen a dead person before, and it was truly one of the most intimate, loving experiences in my life. It felt like such an honour. We spoke to him, of him, laughed and cried. It’s an hour of my life I will never forget.

Me and Lasse in 1976. I’m sure he insisted on me wearing the top hat, as that was very much his sense of humour.

I miss you so much Lasse! Accepting death might have been easy, but grief is a different thing altogether. It was something that I couldn’t prepare myself for, but at the same time I’m relieved, as my calm reaction to it all was also slightly confusing. I know my grief is my love for him continuing on, and that is very comforting. RIP Guffar. Jag älskar dig.