haggholm: (Default)
Today my paternal grandmother, Silja Häggholm, died, but a week shy of ninety-five years of age (she was born in early 1912, about three months before the disaster of the Titanic). It may sound strange to say that I'm not particularly saddened by this, but I have not seen her in years, nor would I have been able to communicate with her if I had; she was very far gone into dementia (Alzheimer's? I don't know), had forgotten all of her Swedish and much of her Finnish (a language I speak not at all), had trouble recognising even her own children sometimes, never understood that my father, her son, was dead…much more. Suffice to say that it was time and (in my opinion) past time.
haggholm: (red)
Today (and I mean the 8th, although it is only a little past midnight here), it is two years to the day (given time zone differences, probably within an hour or two) since my father died. He would be sixty-one if he lived today.
haggholm: (old)
My father's birthday again. Today he'd have been sixty-one.
haggholm: (red)
Today my brother would have been twenty-two. Salud.
haggholm: (red)
It's been one year now.

The post is off by a day, but it was on the 12th it happened, though it was on the 13th that we knew.
haggholm: (gradsuit)
It's been one year today.

Don't worry about me—I'm quite all right; having a good start to the week, and whatnot—but one cannot help but get a bit ... pensive.
haggholm: (gradsuit)
Today, my father would have turned sixty.
haggholm: (old)
Today, my brother would have turned twenty-one.
haggholm: (old)
My mother just called me. My father died today. He was fifty-nine years old.

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