View from a Prairie Home

By Hege Herfindahl, Columnist

I don’t have the energy or the brain capacity right now to look it up; but I do remember how most mornings in the beginning of fall, we had ground fog. Driving east to school right into the rising sun, it was almost impossible to see. With sunglasses, I couldn’t see the actual road. Without sunglasses I couldn’t see what was on the road. 

Today, Monday, just a few days after the funeral, we again have fog. I think it is because it rained on Friday and Thursday, the day of the visitation. So, now, the ground is wet, which is good, because we have had somewhat of a drought. And, maybe the cold air combined with the wet relatively warm ground caused the fog. I am sure you can look it up.

When I don’t have to drive, I think the fog is beautiful, hovering just above the grass, which is bright green now and my roses, which have never looked this good in August. It is also appropriate weather when I try to do my morning walk. I am not so visible and that is what I want to be right now, invisible. 

My mood is apt to change on a moment’s notice; sometimes I am calm and actually comfort my friends (I never knew I had this many friends) who cry on my shoulder. I don’t know what to say. There really aren’t any words. Just emotions. And people are so kind. They bring food. They send cards. They send flowers. They mow our lawn. Take care of our dog. They hug me and say they love me. I have never knew so many people loved me. Words cannot express adequately how much this means to me. To us. 

But now, there is a young widow and two boys. They have lost a husband and father. And my daughter, who lost her husband two years ago, has now lost her brother. And my sensitive eldest, Reuben. Who used to carry his little brother both physically and emotionally when they were growing up. Who took the one and a half hour drive from his home to Rochester every day at the end, to get his brother out of bed. To make him walk a little and maybe even eat. Who met us at the airport when we arrived home from Fort Sill, Okla., where we had been to witness Erland’s eldest, Nils, graduate from Basic Training. To tell us Erland had died. While we were on our way. While Nils was on his way. But Ingvild said it happened so fast, so suddenly. Even though we knew it would happen, his cancer spread so fast, I had never let my mind go there. Losing a child. I knew that was the hardest a person could go through in life. And I naively thought it wouldn’t happen to us. Not after losing Patrick. Other people. Not us. 

And when people tell me they can’t imagine what I am going through, I tell them I don’t want them to imagine it. It is beyond imaginable. Yet it happens. We are a big, but sad group of people who have lost a child or even several children. Yet, we don’t want our group to grow. We want the logical sequence of events, which I don’t have to spell out here.

So looking into the August fog, I sit down and put on my hiking shoes. I get up and open the door. I take one step and then another. That is all I can do. Maybe for a long time. But it is enough for now.