Ann Lindell was standing in front of an open grave, a pit down into the darkness, where the lid of the casket had just disappeared. It was raining, which is as it should be. There was a cold wind from Öresundsgrepen.
The cemetery was very close to the ferry landing and there was scraping and creaking as the clumsy ferry docked. She heard the heavy thud as the steel plate clattered against the abutment on land and how the cars drove off. Somehow she thought it was wrong. Shouldn’t the island have stopped for a while when its oldest inhabitant was being buried?
Ann could not feel any sorrow that paralyzed her inside. Viola had lived almost a century. On the other hand she felt very melancholy. She was taking leave of a person she had liked very much, almost revered, for her great wisdom and warmth.
* * *
Edvard Risberg took a step back and placed himself beside her. He had been one of the pallbearers. It was strange to see him in a dark suit. He looked official in a way that was unlike him. He was aware of that. He seemed ill at ease. His face was closed.
It felt as if she was also burying her old life. After this she would never return to the island. He surely sensed that, which explained the weight in his face. He wanted her back, she knew that. His wordless, austere attitude, which in the beginning of their acquaintance she was attracted by, now stood out as only gloomy and oppressive.
The last lines in the story about Ann and Edvard were written in lower-case letters. There was no showdown, no harsh words were exchanged. Before, she would have feared his anger and been lost in shame. She had overcome that. Not completely, and definitely not when she was on the island, but enough to be able to reason with herself and not wallow in destructive self-contempt.
She sneaked a glance at him. He had aged, the wrinkles in his face had deepened, but he still had an energy that radiated. Even in a black suit in a cemetery. She did not understand why he wasn’t living with a woman. Perhaps there would be a change now when Viola had departed this life.
The ceremony at the grave was blessedly brief. Ann was so cold she was shaking. The group of funeral attendees, perhaps a hundred, slowly broke up. Ann nodded at Agnes and Greta Andersson. They had exchanged a few words earlier. Ann felt how they were keeping an eye on her and Edvard, certainly curious whether they could spot a somewhat more intimate contact between them.
“I wish she had been my mother,” Ann said suddenly.
Edvard did not say anything, perhaps due to the fact that his two sons were approaching. Ann placed herself in front of Edvard, pushed her arms around his body, and gave him a hug. He responded by putting his arms around her and squeezing. They stood like that a couple of seconds. Ann closed her eyes.
When she released her hold tears were running down her cheeks. God how I loved that man, she thought, and felt an impulse to strike at him, throw herself forward and pound on his chest.
She turned around and headed for the parking area. Never again Gräsö. She would make it to the ferry that was waiting.