View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

I am, as I always do when I write, sitting at my desk looking over the prairie through my window. It is raining. I have always loved rain. Its life-giving moisture and the permission it somehow gives me to just be, sit and just look out the window and be with this moment in time. The fall colors today are muted due, in part I think, to the rain. It comes today without the strong, often destructive winds and I laid in bed this morning, the windows open, just listening to its gentle patter. The dark and grey atmosphere outside mirrors my mood. I always wake up with a heavy heart and a pressure to my chest. The realization of this moment is, my son is gone. There is nothing that anybody can do to bring him back. He is not on one of his many long trips far away to countries with unpronounceable names and in times zones 12 hours removed. And no, I will not “get over” losing my child. I spend many hours outside this old, comfortable house pretending. But, the basic, barest truth is; I am indescribably sad. I am not fine.

Since retirement, I have taken up French again. Online. My progress moves ever so slowly. In my few conversations with French people I spoke hesitantly and carefully, not always choosing the right words. They answered me in slow and simple French, hopefully appreciating how I was showing respect for their culture by trying to speak their language. During my French lessons yesterday, I came to a sentence that made me so angry. It said. “Tout le monde vieillir.” (Everybody grows old.) “No!!!” I wanted to scream at my computer. “That is so wrong and smug!” “Think!” I wanted to scream. My father died at 54. My son-in-law died at 43. And my son at 42! They never got to grow old.

One thing that gives me pain is thinking about Erland’s careful plans for growing old. He had bought a piece of land, just half a year before he was diagnosed with stage 4 liver cancer. It was across our driveway, right next to Sand Lake, only half a mile from our house. On a small hill overlooking the lake, he and Esther would build their dream home. Their retirement home. They would spend their waning years sitting on their deck watching the geese, ducks, swans and even loons enjoy the water. They would plant a garden and even grow grapes. They were to inherit Esther’s grandmother’s farm in Kenya, where they would spend the winters.

In the half year when I thought this plan would work, I would visit this little knoll where the house would be often and dream of visiting them for coffee and join them on their porch. Instead, Esther does not want this land, which I understand very well. So we are buying it back from them.

Instead of Erland growing older, I, his mother, am. It seems so inappropriate. I so want to forget my birthday. I don’t want to grow older in a world where I supposedly have to “move on.” So when I received a wedding invitation from two of my former students who were getting married on my birthday, I was relieved. I was also flattered.

The day is just a date. But for them, it will be a jubilant day; the day of their wedding. I hope it won’t rain. I want them to have a fabulous day and a wonderful life together. I want with all my heart that they will get to grow old together.