My staircase smells like mormor. She lived with my morfar here in Frederiksberg.

I felt strangely sure about this place, this apartment from the start and I couldn’t just dismiss it as a question of taste, (I love these tall rooms, these wooden floors in these beautiful houses, the stucco on the ceilings) it felt like something else.  It just hit me walking up the stairs yesterday; this is why I felt safe here immediately, this is why I trusted my intuition to live here.

My mormor was a very strong woman in a very quiet kind way. She controlled (silently) my morfar totally and he died within a couple of years when she died. I am still convinced he died of sorrow, he had no reason to live when she was not around anymore. He was a loud, bragging, dominating character with a profound passion for food in any form or shape. I am sorry that my passion for food surfaced after he passed away; I am convinced we could have shared some good meals, though his passion was for massive amounts of it, not for the quality =)*.

I think he loved my mormor dearly, even if his only way of expressing it would be to ask her “skal jeg roere lidt ved dig, Marie ?”. I saw them kiss only a couple of times, usually at lunch when she had had a few too many snaps, chased down with appelsinvand. Then she would agree to kiss him (in a strange defiant way, it looked to me as if she wanted to, but couldn’t allow herself unless she was squiffy) , we would cheer and be a bit happier afterwards.  She was a smoker and a serious one if there ever was one. Often I would bring her morning coffee on her bedside when she visited in Jylland, and it would be strong coffee with cream (no milk for her) and I would sit with her there while she smoked her first Cecil without filter, fascinated by her kind, wrinkled face. She had such soft skin.

I know it is a clichè but I really wish I could have appreciated my mormor and morfar more while they were alive. But it feels as if they’re approving of my being here.

*once for Christmas he ate so much he got sick and had to go to the bathroom and puke. After a while he came back in and started eating again as if nothing had happened. 

4 thoughts on “Smells like…. Mormor

  1. Kyllyan….Tak for den dejlige historie. Jeg tror også at det er de stærke kvinder i vores historie der har været med til, bevidst eller ubevidst, at forme vores valg som kvinder.
    Jeg ville ALDRIG bytte mit liv, med min farmors f.eks., men jeg værdsætter at have kendt min farmor og kendt til hendes liv.

  2. @annette: selvtak, jeg er osse overbevist om at kvinderne i vores historie goer en kaempe forskel. Jeg ville heller ikke bytte, men min mormors stille og tavse styrke (og min mors ogsaa for dèn sags skyld) er saa meget anderledes end hvordan jeg selv er, derfor fascinerer og inspirerer det mig.

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